


The Hooked Swan

by bluegraywilde



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2020-01-15 00:53:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18487942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluegraywilde/pseuds/bluegraywilde
Summary: Emma Swan has toiled away in her childhood home for years under the thumb of Regina. But now she must navigate her growing attraction to the gentleman of the house. Years buried secrets come to light transforming the sleepy English village of Storybrooke forever.





	1. Carpe Diem

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gingerchangeling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerchangeling/gifts).



        It is a truth universally acknowledged that life in a small town nestled in the English countryside is suffocating, particularly without the privileges of blood and wealth to expand one’s horizons or attract interesting company to pass the time. The conditions are much worsened if one began life with these advantages only for them to be lost to the vagaries of fortune. _Or the wickedness and vindictiveness of a lord and lady scorned._

Emma Swan thought of this often as she made her rounds in the cavernous and all too familiar halls of Misthaven Manor. It was cruel twist of fate that she now scrubbed the floors, dusted the knickknacks, and washed the clothing in the house that she had played in as a child.

        But she needed to make a living. There was no long line of suitors waiting for her hand in marriage, particularly now that she was no longer the new young pretty thing of Storybrooke. _Men will always go for the young filly, never the old maid. And here I am, twenty-six years of age, with no prospects and no dowry to be collected._

        Not that she would be in a position to be joined in union with another man’s family. Her own still needed to be cared for. Her aging mother and father had no one else. _It’s a spinster’s life for me._

        But it would all be worth it, for their sakes. _Until they are dead and buried, and I am left alone in this world._ She shuddered, trying to shake that morbid vision. _A dark thought for a dark hour._

        There was a noise. Emma’s heart skipped a beat, worried that perhaps a thief had hoped to catch the household unawares before the sun had risen. _A thief poor at his craft if betrayed so easily by crashes of his own making._

        Her investigation into the source soon yielded results, “Mr. Jones, what are you doing up at this hour?”

        The young terror of the house was swallowed by his father’s arm chair, sitting there bleary eyed, head slumping down to his shoulder. A candle flickered on the desk by his side. The crash Emma had heard was a heavy tome, pages open upon the floor.

         It was a collection of fairy tales accompanied with some of the most curious and arresting artwork she had ever seen. Sometimes by candle light or when glimpsed out of the corner of her eye, she swore they looked like her fellow residents of Storybrooke. An absurd notion. The dog-eared book was older than even Cora.

        The reason why the boy read in the dead of night was simple enough. Regina did not approve of his continued interest in these fanciful stories, the stuff of innocent childhood. Given her distaste, Emma was surprised the book had not yet been tossed into the flames and left in an ash heap. _Her husband’s objections be damned._

        “Oh Emma,” She winced at his casual informality, addressing her by Christian name as if they were true family, not merely employer and the hired help. “I did not see you there.” His cheeks were flushed scarlet at being caught. _Although in truth he has committed no crime, petty or otherwise._  

        “Don’t worry young sir, I won’t tell your mother.” _If she found out I was enabling him, I’d be on the streets in an instant._ “Off to your room now. Quick as you can.”

        He beamed at her, and her heart instantly softened. _That poor child, stuck under the tyranny of Regina and the inconstant affections of Mr. Jones._ Regina loved him in her own fashion she supposed but was far too possessive, more enamored with the idea of a dutiful son than the genuine article.   

        It was telling sign that Regina had to adopt Henry rather than produce progeny of her own. _She is vain enough to want to see her own image reflected in her offspring._

        Mr. Jones seemed to lack the spark of paternal affection and without it, any inclination to educate and support his charge. _Henry might as well not have a father._  

        Sometimes in her daydreams, she imagined Henry was the boy she had surrendered to Rector Weaver all those years ago. _“A good home he will have, a better life than the bastard son of goatherders_ . _”_

        He was of the right age or thereabouts. Sometimes she saw the coloring of that babe’s vile father in those otherwise innocent eyes. Or the shape of his face echoing her mother’s.

        But she suspected her affections for the boy clouded her judgment on the matter. Wishful thinking would get her nowhere. If life had taught her no other lesson, it was that.

        Emma collected the book off the ground, sheltering it in the crook of her arm like a babe, intending to return it to the library, where it would be safely hidden away.

        She did agree with Regina that fairy tales were worse than useless. Endless belief in the fantastic, true love, happy endings… all set up for endless disappointments, broken hearts, and wasted lives. But she would be damned if she let Regina crush a child’s innocence before its time. _Mothers should not be needlessly cruel, there is enough of that in the world._

        Unfortunately for Emma, Regina was out on the prowl this brisk morning. _Just my luck._

        It was too late to hide anything, Regina knew exactly what she carried.

        “Miss Swan,” Regina put too much emphasis on the miss, meaning it an insult instead of a mere statement of fact. “I do hope after all this time acclimating to your station that you do not need further instruction for the completion of the simplest of tasks.”

Emma held her tongue. She often played the mute around Regina, finding it safer than giving the woman ammunition. The woman turned every word into a perceived slight that would be punished accordingly.

        It did not help matters that there was no safe form of address. Ma’am was unacceptable for reminding Regina of her age: conjuring images of greying hair, sagging lined skin, and undesirability to men. Mrs. Jones implied an inferiority and servitude to her husband that she could not stand. And of course, her Christian name could not be uttered by a mere servant. _Which is why I get such joy referring to her exclusively by it in my mind, it’s certainly kinder than the more fitting alternatives._

        But that was not the only reason, silence had become her constant companion for the better part of the past ten years. _It always goes back to that day. Always._ One secret begets others quite rapidly in quick succession until the web of lies becomes its own kind of truth _. Of sorts until the illusion shatters._

        That first secret had been sweet. _A boy. It always starts with a boy._ Neal Weaver, the shining elder son of the village priest, all rogue-ish charm and glinting smiles. _A girl’s dream and in truth I was still a half-a-girl playacting at being a woman._

That had been the first time a man of good education and breeding had shown interest in her since her family’s fall from grace. _And the last. I did not then catch the warning in this apparent oasis in the desert._

In truth, Neal had been more like quicksand. Once entrapped there was simply no escape.

_Until he let me go._

        They had intended to elope, leaving Storybrooke together. Perhaps to America for a fresh start. Or see the wonders of the Continent. Scavenging in the meanwhile till he could establish his trade.

A girl in love makes mistakes.

_“Carpe Diem.”_

_“Neal, what does that mean?”_

_“Seize the day, for we are young and beautiful, never so much ever again as on this sweet summer day.”_

       She had surrendered her virginity to him, to consummate their plan, this next great adventure. Vows of marriage were not needed to illustrate their bond. No holy union could hope to match the intensity, the dedication. _Oh what a fool._

       For the first time in years, her blood did not flow.

       She had thought it merely late until she started vomiting at the slightest stimulus. Her mother had recognized the signs, and once Emma had begun to show, she was sequestered away in their modest cottage as if a papist nun wasting away in a monastery-cum-prison.

       Neal had visited but once to confirm the truth of the rumors flying. He did not talk of America or the Continent then. Or of marriage to save her face and virtue in the eyes of men.

       He had spoken of a plant that if consumed in sufficiently large quantities would induce a miscarriage. Emma had refused. Hadn’t they spent all those idle hours dreaming of a life and family together?

        He balked when challenged on this. _“You couldn’t have believed that I… for God’s sake Emma, I am a priest’s son. I have a whole future far away from this place. I cannot be attached by marriage to someone of such low standing and worth. I knew you were slow given your interrupted education, but I thought you smart enough to take precautions when opening up those pretty legs of yours.”_

        His insults had stung. But it steeled her resolve to keep the child, if only out of spite. She would raise hellfire and shame him, dragging his name into the same mud that would be so liberally sprayed at hers.

        A few days later, Rector Weaver had arrived- Neal had run back to daddy to solve his problem. The gravity of her choice had sunk in. The hard life for her child once born, forever marked with the stigma of low birth and bastardry. And he had talked sweetly, promising a good home. As difficult as it was, she couldn’t have refused.

       Once she had emerged from the cocoon of that pregnancy, she had been the talk of the village, her secret more observed in the breach. There would be no future for her in Storybrooke, but no escape either. She lacked the means and could not work for them.

       Neal escaped scot-free, unattached to scandal and free to go on to university and court proper ladies of good birth and fortune. Rector Weaver’s involvement with ensuring her child’s future was conditional on her silence.

       But then Mr. Jones had hired her, either out of ignorance of or pity for her condition. Regina had at first refused, but then she realized she rather liked the idea of the daughter of her hated former step-daughter under her thumb, beholden to her every whim.

        Which brought Emma back to her current predicament, caught in her insubordination before the lady of the house.

        Before a gruff voice called, “Miss Swan, I require your services in the pallor.” _My knight in black leather._ Hardly the proper dress for a gentleman, but he only wore his well-made tailored suits when company was around.

        Regina turned upon her husband, clearly intending to let loose a string of abuse or profanities at the interruption, but thought better of fighting in front of the help. _Ay we do indeed have eyes and ears miss, and don’t you forget it._

        Although she had sworn off the rougher sex for the monsters they were, every time the elder Mr. Jones made his rounds, she found her heart skipping a beat. His eyes were of the sea, its tempest and swells. His hair so black as to make a raven blush.

        Even the scars and loss of his left hand, tokens from his days in the navy, that would frighten or distress other women, she found a testament to his character. It would have been quite easy for a man of his rank and position to have shirked his duty or hidden behind the deeds of better men.

        More oft than not he replaced the prim and proper prosthetic hand Regina had acquired at much expense with the simpler metal hook that the naval surgeon had affixed upon his stump on the journey home.

        If only he did not have the temperament so common among his kind. _And a marital union to a demoness._ He was a graven, unforgiving man prone to fits of pique, unsociable, wanton, a drunkard, and a wastrel. _I shudder at what his confession would look like if he kept the papist faith._

        His many vices were likely the result of the darkness that stalked his family. _The loss of his brother in the war, the family estate burned down beyond repair, the death of his first wife to those very flames._

       She did not know the full story as he never spoke of it in her hearing. But the village was alive with gossip about him. _And how can they not with such a striking and troubled man in their midst._

       She closed the pallor door behind them, and once sure of their privacy, he said, “You will not be disposing of that tome as my wife has instructed.” _Just as you vetoed her the past half-dozen times._ “It is a family heirloom and will be treated as such, the harpy be damned. Hide it this time among the nautical atlases. Perhaps the boy will not be so quick to find it.” _If you really wished to deny it to him, you would keep it in your study._

       That particular room remained under lock and key, the only one in Mr. Jones’ constant possession, hanging about his neck. Curiosity sometimes compelled her to stare at the simple oaken door, wondering what could lay beyond it that needed such secrecy. But not even she or Ella had access to it. _Seems like the kind of secret one takes to the grave._

       Not even his lady wife was allowed entry. But she had her own secrets, hidden away in the cellar which she had transformed into a crypt of sorts. They respected each other’s privacy, just as they respected the letter if not the spirit of their marriage vows.

       “Of course, sir.”

       Emma shifted uncomfortably under his unblinking gaze, aware she had not been dismissed, but unsure what more he could want from her.

       She settled on returning it. A bold move for an employee, but she was tired of shrinking herself down. Tired of refusing to take up space, remaining mute and mousey, always compliant. _His eyes are quite compelling. I don’t find enough time to appreciate them._

       If only he was a piece of art, divorced from the hungry flesh and base vices of men. She could then admire his beauty at her leisure. She would still covet something that she could not have, but without the shame and sin and that awful prospect of him reciprocating her desires and acting upon his own.

       The standoff concluded with him grinning- _what the fuck is that supposed to mean?_

       “As you were Miss Swan.” He broke eye contact first, ambling over to his armchair, opening the daily paper, seemingly at random.

       “Yes sir.” She exited the room, her heart pounding, blood rushing in her ears, feeling his gaze follow her out. She dared not look back.

***

       Emma always enjoyed when errands let her head into town. The manor got suffocating in its isolation. Her only constant companions being the two Mr. Jones, Regina, Cora, and Ella. None fitting for true friendship: an irate man, a mere boy, a witch and her mother, and a sweet enough girl.

       Perhaps that was an unfair assessment of her fellow maid. But the younger woman was still half a girl, head full of dreams that some nameless prince would recognize her worth and save her from the hell she was now living. _Maybe that fantasy is her way of coping._

      Certainly, there was some steel to her. Between the Charybdis and Scylla that were the Mr. and Mrs. Jones, no other staff stayed on long for fear of their sanity. And yet Ella worked away without fail.

      When Emma pressed her on why she stayed, she merely laughed and remarked that she had seen crueler taskmasters in her day but declined to elaborate further. _Everyone is entitled to their secrets. I know that better than most._

      Ruby Lucas was the only woman she would unhesitantly call a friend. Red, so called after the rich burgundy cloak (how the family afforded such an extravagance, nobody knew) she had worn since a child, had been a sweet orphaned girl in the care of her innkeeper grandmother. Now a woman grown, she showed no sign of settling down, much to her grandmother’s chagrin. _Mayhaps we should wed, swear off the company of men all together._

      The Widow Lucas, as she was exclusively referred to by all but her sweet Red, was a practical woman with a keen eye for business. Local lore held it that the scars about her neck were the leavings of a wolf attack in her youth. _Ridiculous, there hasn’t been a wolf sighting in hundreds of years._

      After being disinherited by her wicked grandfather and evicted by his widow, Emma and her family had taken temporary shelter in the Lucas Inn until David’s own modest childhood home could be rehabilitated. Emma and Ruby had become fast friends during this time, playing games and getting underfoot.

      How Emma missed those days. Not the panic and confusion following their eviction and fall from grace, but then she still had lacked the responsibilities that her new life would soon thrust upon her. Her hands had still been soft and uncalloused and her skin as white as her mother’s, which had oft been compared to fresh snowfall until sixteen years of laboring under the sun left its dark mark.

      A flash of red was Emma’s only warning as she was tackled from her periphery. Ruby knew how to make an entrance. _Good to see you too friend._

      “I honestly don’t know why you still toil away at that fucking place.” The quite loud and public vulgarity earned Ruby a few nasty stares from passerbys, but if she noticed (or cared), Emma could not see it. “You know Gran could find a use for you at the inn. Or…”

      “You know I can’t.” The inn was starting to visibly struggle. Since the railroad had been built a few miles over, visitors to Storybrooke, already a relatively uncommon sight, have become rarer still.

      “For Christ’s sake Emma,” One particularly scandalized woman made the sign of the cross upon hearing the Lord’s name taken in vain. “It’s not bloody charity. You’d more than earn your keep.”

      Before Emma could respond, the two women were approached by a man of the cloth. Well not any man, but the man: Rector Weaver.

      He was reptilian and cold-blooded for a man of God. Behind his back, and only in the faintest of whispers, he was called Mr. Gold for his inappropriate love of the yellow stuff that shines in the sunlight.

      He was the closest thing Storybrooke had to both a bank and pawn shop. He bartered and traded and loaned with all comers and always collected on his debts. No one dared utter usury in his hearing, despite him sucking them and their heirs dry.

     “Miss Lucas,” He inclined his head at Ruby. “Miss Swan, I missed you both at my service today.” _Shit._ Emma had forgotten it was the Sabbath.

      It was not so much that Emma particularly cared for religion or Christ. Her life thus far had been needlessly cruel. No god worth worshiping would allow such suffering in the world. _God is either good or all-powerful. He cannot be both._

      But failure to observe had consequences that outweighed what should be matters of pure conscious. Especially for the woman rumored to be a harlot. Particularly given this particular parish was in the iron grip of Rector Weaver.  

      “I’m sure the Lord in his infinite mercy and compassion will forgive us our trespass.” The sarcasm dripped in at the margins, but for the most part Emma pulled off this display of faux-piety.

      He narrowed his eyes. “You would be wise not to test his patience. Faith is all he requires from we sinful creatures.”

      Emma suspected Weaver did not include himself among that we, supposing he had a heaven’s eye viewpoint on the affairs of the mere mortals that populated his town.  

      Ruby grasped her hand, preparing for a quick getaway, “You are right Father, we’ll reflect and pray upon our sins.”

      They made a graceless run for it, shuffling away at great speed, departing with only the slightest incline of their heads as acknowledgment of the parting.

      Once safely out of earshot, Ruby’s whole body relaxed, releasing tension. “Oh thank god, we escaped. I will attend no service as long as that man is at St. Ambrose. He gives me the creeps.”

      Emma nodded in agreement. Rector Weaver was many things but a good man was certainly not one of them.

      She noticed where the sun lay in the sky, “I’m sorry, I have to go.”

      “Do you have to go?” Ruby batted those big puppy dog eyes at Emma, and she was sorely tempted to stay and properly catch up.

      “Regina will be expecting me back by sundown and I still need to see my parents.”

      One last bear hug and they parted.

      Emma approached the modest cottage of her shepherd father, nestled in fields that feel as if they should be endless but were unfortunately anything but. The cottage had a worn, lived-in feel that radiated all the warmth and hominess that Misthaven lacked under its current masters.

      Opening the door, she called into the house, “Mom, Dad, I’m home.” _That’s odd, usually mom is waiting for me outside._

      Her mother called from their bed from behind the curtain that served as the only partition in the interior. “Emma, we have news.”

      Emma ambled over, pulling the curtain back. “Don’t tell me, Hopper managed to lose Pogo again. Or Leroy finally realized being called Grumpy is totally fitting given his personality.”

      When she entered their “room,” her parents exchanged a loaded look at her words. Emma was set immediately on edge. _The last time they were this serious was during my pregnancy. They can’t be ill; they look hale and hearty if grayer than I remember._ Still her mind spiraled with the possibilities.

      “Emma, I’m pregnant.”

      Shock was the overwhelming emotion. One does not expect a younger sibling once one is grown. Emma had once dreamed of having a little sibling. A sister to gossip and play with and love more than a porcelain doll. A brother to race and wrestle and mock. But now was well past the time of those daydreams.

      “Congratulations.” She could not muster the enthusiasm the word implied, instantly thinking of the costs of feeding, clothing, and- _god willing_ \- schooling this new addition to the household. Suddenly the pound, five shillings, seven pence she had squirreled away to contribute to the family finances seemed wholly inadequate. _What is to be done?_


	2. A Beautiful Nightmare

      Killian Jones awoke, covered in the fresh sweat of fear, letting loose a scream into the night. He needn’t worry about waking anyone else. The boy and the servants were housed in the opposite wing of the manor, so far they might as well as be in the village proper. And his lady wife occupied their primary bedchambers, alone.

      More oft than not they slept apart these long nights. She had no patience for having her beauty rest disturbed by his thrashing. And he had no wish for her to see the how deep his many scars ran. The darkness that lay within, roiling away just under the taut surface of his paper-thin skin, eating away at his innards.  

      Nightmares had long haunted him. They were the constant companions of the little boy with the dead mother and the absentee father. So often did they recur that little Killian had begun to name them.  _ Cain. Judas. Saul. Pharaoh. Satan. Christ I was a melodramatic child. _

      Liam had been the only one who could help soothe the demons in his mind, lulling them with soft and deep lullabies that he claimed mother had sung to him when he was Killian’s age.  _ A sweet lie I’m sure, but well meant.  _ Killian could never be sure.

      But they had intensified when Liam had joined the navy, when the long war against France had resumed again after the briefest of intermissions. Each fevered night his brother’s body was ripped apart in the most terrible ways in his mind’s eye.  _ Gored, mauled, drawn and quartered, gutted like a fish, head left resting upon a spike. _

By then it was Milah who had replaced Liam as his companion in the dark. She never said a word about them, one way or the other. Uttering neither pity nor judgment, her silent presence was enough, the lightest of her touches smoothing his brow and putting him at ease.

       This went on for two restless years, until the news reached him. On the most gorgeous of days, the sunlight shining bright in a cloudless boundless sky, the gentlest of breezes caressing his face, the most beautiful woman in the world at his side. A simple letter, postmarked from London, the office of the Admiralty relating the death of one Liam Brennan Jones in what was being called the Battle of Trafalgar.

        There were some hastily scribbled words about his bravery and courage and upstanding moral character. All true. But not known to whatever underpaid clerk had the dubious honor of relating the casualties ground up in the British war machine. 

       Killian was not one to cry often. For much of his childhood there had been little prospect of comfort. Tears were a waste of feeling. But the loss of his brother breached the floodgates, his tears pockmarking the page. Not even Milah was much comfort, although he surely would have died without her.

       His brave and dutiful brother was left rotting at the bottom of some foreign sea, so very far from the home at which he should be laid to rest. Liam’s entire life, all that love and goodness and pure potential for greatness, pissed away for King and Country.  _ There’s no glory in combat, no matter what the songs and stories say. _

 And he would know, having seen the horrors for himself. Fool that he had been, he had tried to avenge his brother, finish what he had started. Killian thought of it as his penance for not being there in the first place, distracted as he was by the life he had wanted to build with Milah.

        For his recklessness and sins, he paid another price in flesh and blood, just his own this time, losing a hand for his troubles.  _ And whatever spirit animates a man, although in truth that likely perished with Liam. _

His lost fingers flexed and twinged as they always did whenever he thought of that day. They had been shipped out to the Adriatic to disrupt the shipping of French supplies to their new Illyrian provinces. Some squabble over some petty island turned nasty. The French outnumbered their squadron two to one. _“Pray now to your God.”_

Their captain, one William Hoste, a fine and able man, raised the battle standard for Nelson, the pyrrhic victor of Trafalgar. And his first thought as the ships positioned themselves to brawl had been that another brother Jones was going to sink beneath the waves.  

        As it stood, it had been a near thing. But fortune stood with them that day.  _ At a price.  _ A stray cannonade landed too close to his left side, the fragments of the ship and his person jumbling together. In retrospect he was lucky not to be hit directly but in the moment that rational response was drowned in pain.

       Delirious and cursing like the sailor he was, Killian was dragged below deck with the other wounded, to face the alien mercies of the ship’s doctor.

       The surgeon had been a surly fellow-  _ Prussians, neurotic the lot of them _ \- as likely to take part in his concoctions as use them on his patients.

       His name was some unpronounceable German monstrosity so everyone on board just ended up calling him Von Whale. There had been a rumor making the rounds that he had taken up the habit of drinking whale oil straight. Obvious nonsense but he had a certain madness about him that made it just within the realm of possibility.

       His drugged antics and boozing were tolerated because he had never erred upon the surgeon’s table, his cuts quick and clean, his drugs so potent that a man could sing a drinking song as he lost flesh and bone to the blade.

       Whale had saved his chest and the arm but the hand was simply beyond him. With the practiced ease of the butcher, he had separated it at the wrist, saving the rest of Killian’s arm from potential infection. He even made a makeshift hook prosthetic to serve on the voyage home, as Killian had been medically discharged with full honors.  _ Same difference as none at all. _

        He drifted back to sleep, nursing his grievances against the world, counting them one by one like sheep.  _ You’d think they’d make my blood boil but… _

        The next time Killian awoke, it was to the shrieks and giggles of a child at play, sounding from the yard.  _ Not obnoxious at all then.  _ His body hurt all over, like a phantom soreness from his navy days. Movements slow and deliberate, he left the embrace of the bed, letting everything hang out.

        He opened the curtains, wincing at the sudden intrusion of sunlight. Looking down, he saw that Emma and Ella were hanging the washing to dry outside while Henry ran amongst them, hiding behind this or that bit of fluttering cloth or otherwise getting underfoot of the women at work.

        Part of him was tempted to descend on some pretense. Observe from up close the workings of his subordinates, initiating something that resembled human connection. He scoffed, aloud, for whose benefit he wasn’t quite sure. It was a foolish thought, born out of weakness. Nothing good could come of it.  _ Either rejection in the moment or pain down the line. There’s no real victory in attachments. _

        The boy was sweet enough, although he had never felt any particular kinship with children.  _ Perhaps once, with Milah I could have...  _ He shook his head. It didn’t bear thinking about, that particular dream had been burned out of him.  _ Like so much else. _

        Still there was something about that lad that haunted Killian. Perhaps it was his coloring, or the curvature of his nose, or those joyful sweet eyes that reminded him so much of Milah.

        He could not so much as look in the general direction of the lad without seeing the ghost of his dead love, staring back at him with the pious adoration and awe exclusive to small children.  _ Although much less small than he has been, where are the years going? _

       And even with drink numbing the sting of that loss, the sight was still too terrible to behold.  _ She’s dead and buried on Hawthorn Hill… well what physical matter could be recovered from the ashes. _

 Then there was the problem of Emma Swan. Killian was by no means a pious man. _Doesn’t help when one gets into fistfights with one of his representatives on Earth._ Weaver had been drunk. Otherwise he’d never have risked a public confrontation that would sully his precious reputation. _For a cuckold and a priest, that man has a wicked left hook._

      Regardless of Weaver’s merits (or obvious lack thereof), God belonged in the same mythical realm as those fairy tales Liam sometimes read at his bedside. But even so, he felt intense guilt over the lust he felt for that simple maid.

      It was simply beneath him. These animal wants should be his to command. And if he should transgress the laws of polite society, it shouldn’t be for something as common as Ms. Swan. She had the right birth, he’d concede that, but lacked the other necessary credentials.

      His station in life demanded a fitting paramour, someone worldly and exotic, charming with quick wit and sharp tongue. She’d know the carnal arts and would chew him up and spit him out once she found a gentleman of yet higher station-  _ our good regent for one.  _

      But one thing stayed his hand above all else.  _ It’s an insult to Milah’s memory in a way my marriage to Regina never is. _

      His arrangement with Regina was a triumph of business concerns first. There was certainly some physical attraction mixed in.  _ Between her and Milah, I seem to have a thing for older women.  _ He couldn’t help but idly think that Swan would break that particular pattern.

      But after the destruction of his family’s seat, centuries worth of accumulated Jones’ family treasures going up in flames and smoke, the only way to stay solvent was to marry rich and well.  _ And quickly. _ He had seen what happened to broken men when traveling back through London. Unable to sell their labor, at least not on terms acceptable to the monied classes, they begged and worse, their rotting forms clogging the poor houses and streets. He didn’t fancy his chances relying on the charity of others. 

      And Regina had certainly been a receptive partner. Beyond his obvious charms- _even one handed, I’m quite the specimen, aren’t I_ - she was a creature of excess; more was never enough. Whether it be land, coin, jewels, gowns, Regina could not be sated.

      It was the weakness of her background, she could never forget her grandfather had been a common miller-  _ and should she, that harpy Cora is always on her shoulder egging her on about it.  _ Vain and overcompensating, Regina did not easily wear the crown that came with running a large estate, no matter how much she liked how it shined and glimmered upon her brow.

      Such an arrangement, even when it veered into passions-  _ we are but fleshy creatures _ \- was not one that weighed heavily on his sentiments or conscious. Milah was still queen of his heart from beyond the veil. 

       Killian had already had his great love story, the kind where two souls are united as one against a hostile, uncaring world.  _ Nabbing a married woman wasn’t my finest hour…  _ A familiar rouge-ish smile, the kind that could have seduced many a woman ashore in ports across the world, if he was so inclined, lit upon the corners of his lips.  _ Or was it? _

       He did not think it likely he deserved the chance at another, even if he wanted one.  _ Which I don’t _ . But such was the pull and depths of his attraction to Swan, he did not trust himself to indulge in her charms without getting attached. She would usurp Milah. And that thought terrified him more than he cared to admit, even in the privacy of his own thoughts.

       Killian turned away from the bucolic scene, stepping back into the shadows of his room.

       Now came the most difficult part of his morning routine- dressing himself. He had always prided himself on a certain self-sufficiency, the legacy of his childhood  _ or lack thereof. _ His habits would not change regardless of his deformity.

        Most of the time he elided around the issue by wearing a simple pullover cotton shirt underneath a leather overcoat paired with simple trousers.  _ High fashion among the seaworthy. Not that Regina sees it in quite the same fashion. _

__ But this afternoon they were hosting Lady Tremaine and her daughters and he would have to put more effort into his appearance.  _ Meaning any. Why must modern fashion have so many damn buttons? _

        While working away with his good hand, concentrating hard and with more effort than the task deserved, he lost his balance.  _ Shit.  _ He toppled over tangled in the fabric of his clothing, feeling quite defeated.  _ I live on the floor now. _

        There was a knock at the door.  _ Double shit.  _ He had no wish for anyone in this household to see him compromised, least of all the two remaining members not out upon the lawn. He didn’t know which he dreaded more in the moment. The queen of (crushing) hearts or his lady wife.

        The door swung upon its hinges, the knock merely the fig leaf of courtesy for a woman with neither the time nor inclination to wait for his assent.  _ Well we are husband and wife. _

        “You’d think after all these years you’d have learned your limits.”  _ Till death do us part. _

        He swallowed his pride, summoning a weak smile, and stated, “A little help.”

        He couldn’t quite bring himself to ask outright. That inflection refused to leave his mouth.

        Regina, predictably, scowled. “I’m no servant.”  _ Methinks she forgets pride is one of the seven deadly sins. _

        She strode across the room, opening the window, and called down, “Miss Swan, your services are required.” When the blonde did not immediately scamper upon being called, Regina let loose commanding, “At once.”

         While waiting for his would-be rescuer, he wondered if she selected Swan to torture himself or the girl.  _ Likely both. _

         “You really must hire a new manservant.” Killian resisted the urge to groan, at least aloud.  _ Not this dross again. _

         She had definitely fucked the last one. Well he had no visual or physical evidence proof on the matter, merely strong suspicions, but they were enough. 

         He complimented her on her taste, Graham Hunter was an attractive fellow, even he couldn’t help but notice.  _ I’m sure a number of men from my naval days wouldn’t mind a night alone with him when the ladies of the ports are far, far away.  _

         “I know a number of candidates who would be more than qualified for the position. I can leave you their names, should you care to vet them yourself. But I’m more than happy to handle the matter myself. To be done with it.”

_          Aye so you can have a spy on me at all hours of the day.  _ That was the real reason no servant lasted long at Misthaven Manor.  _ Well that and Regina’s unreasonable demands. She won’t be satisfied until they invent telepathy. _

         They both partook in the practice of hiring servants to spy on the other. Or tempt the other into obvious infidelity, that the victim may win the lion’s share of their combined estate in court.

The only unofficial limits upon these skirmishes were his study and her crypt. The barest rules of chivalry that prevented the household from descending into a proper war zone. _And I would know what that looks like._

_          But hey the sex is good.  _ And Regina did know how to fill out a gown in all the right places. Her vanity had the charming side of effect of making her never an unwanted, and often a quite visually pleasing, sight.

         “I would very much like to see your list.” She cocked an eyebrow.

         “But I’m sure the issue can wait until after Lady Tremaine’s visit.” Punting every issue made for a happy marital bed.  _ If I should actually sleep in it any time soon. _

         The corner of her lips lifted in the barest hint of a smile. “But of course.”

         Swan stood in the doorway. The light from the window shone upon her, making her blonde hair glow bright and her eyes squint.  _ My would-be hero. _

It was difficult now to see the scared girl who had first arrived at his doorstep desperately seeking work. She had grown into herself, her posture straighter, her eyes flinty and alert. It is as if she had been unprocessed ore but the years had molded her into her steel.

        “Excellent. Miss Swan dress Mr. Jones.” Killian cringed, to be cast as if he were an incapable child. “He must be presentable. Company is expected any hour now.”  _ Kill me now. It’d be a mercy. Regardless if I ended up in heaven, hell, or the void. _

         Silent as always-  _ precisely what goes on in that pretty head of yours? _ \- Swan inclined said head in acknowledgment of her marching orders.

Sure of compliance, Regina whirled around with a dramatic flourish, pushing past Swan, nearly knocking down the girl with the girth of her skirt. _On purpose I’m sure because the girl doesn’t suffer enough indignities as it stands._

         Swan helped lift him upright, working away at the buttons, her hands working up his chest. Killian was suddenly very aware that the reek of alcohol from the previous night remained on his breath.

         He desperately prayed his lust would not show given their close proximity. He could feel the heat of her presence, radiating off her. The shape of her, incredibly near, ready to meld with his.  _ Normally when I’m this close to a woman, she’s undressing me. Or I’m undressing her. Or both is happening at once as our limbs tangle together. _

         It would be so easy. To seize her now. To make her his, if only for a moment. The physical satisfaction to be had. Just to do it the once and then he could move on with his life, carrying a flame for Milah unquenched by Swan’s beauty.

         But he held himself in check. It was a cruel thought, nothing good likely to come of it.  _ And what satisfaction is there to be had in a prize stolen by force when perhaps it could be freely given one day. At least in my dreams.  _

         She worked away with a quiet efficiency, and soon enough he was besuited. The unfamiliar weight of Regina’s preferred prosthetic, properly attached with Swan’s help, was at his side.

         Looking in the mirror, he held his hand to his face, fingers brushing against the accumulated scruff.  _ Regina would want me to shave.  _ The thought filled him with an inarticulable anger.  _ Let her take the razor to my face if it irritates her so much. _

         She stood still as a statue now, her assigned task completed. He could gawk at her all day, but realized how weird that would come off.  _ Besides we wouldn’t want Regina bursting in right now. _

         “Miss Swan.”

         “Sir?” There was an edge to her voice. He couldn’t quite identify whether it was defiance or nerves. He could see the strain in her face as she tried to keep a placid poker face.  _ The only question is if I’m getting under her skin the right way or not. _

         Now he needed to say something clever or cutting or romantic or seductive.  _ Or anything, just say anything. _

         “Thank you.”  _ Weak tea, hopelessly weak.  _ One didn’t thank the help. They were merely doing their job.

         “You’re welcome sir.” Her posture instantly relaxed, a soft smile lighted upon her lips, seeming almost foreign to her face. And he melted, despite how perfunctorily the words had left her mouth.

         After a beat she opened her mouth to speak, Killian leaned in, expectantly. She never initiated conversation with him. In fact, most of the time she could be mistaken as mute. At least around him.

         “Am I excused, sir?’

         He hoped the disappointment did not register upon his features.  _ Plenty of time for that later, with a drink in hand. _ “As you were, Miss Swan.”

         She curtsied and left his presence. He merely watched, rooted in place there awhile, pondering what could be done with a problem like Emma Swan.


	3. A Practical Education

         “But Mom, they’re boring!” Henry was pouting, eyes wide and pleading, lower lip trembling. He wasn’t quite sure why. He knew this trick only worked on Ella and (sometimes) Emma. His mom never cared, she’d get her way, come hell or high water. 

“Lady Tremaine’s daughters will be in need of company.” She bent down, laying a firm hand upon his shoulder. “And you must play the part of the good host.” _But why! It’s not like they’d want to spend time with me anyway._

Anastasia and Drizella- _what a stupid name!_ \- Tremaine were unbearable. Just stuck up and mean. And worst of all girls!

         Like he knew that they didn’t have cooties.  _ Probably.  _ But they didn’t like getting muddy or playing with their imaginations or going exploring. They just wanted to sit around, looking pretty, and talk about boys or gossip about people he didn’t know or care about.  _ Why talk when you can actually do stuff instead.  _

         But there was only one response that she would accept. “Yes.” After a beat, realizing his mistake, he corrected himself. “Yes, Mother.”  _ It’s like she’d forget who she is unless I say it.  _

She must have heard the reluctance in his answer because her eyes gave him a suspicious once over, but she released him from her grip. “Good. Now see to it that you don’t get that outfit dirty in the meantime.”

He was in a monkey suit, fitting so snuggly he could barely walk much less run. There was no chance he was going to get it dirty even if he wanted to. _Which I definitely do, so I don’t have to be here, but that’s not the point._

        Regina left him to his own devices, walking away, probably to bark orders and make sure the house was presentable for company. This would normally be a chance to run wild.  _ If only. _

        “My, my, someone’s looking handsome.”

        He turned around to see Emma, bringing in the laundry from outside, a hamper filled to brim resting on her hip. She was probably his favorite person in the whole world. The only one who always had time for him. No matter what.

“I don’t feel handsome.” And he didn’t, just uncomfortable. Not that he cared about that kind of thing. Handsome was something adults said to be nice. Or girls giggled about to each other whenever they saw a guy.

         “Here’s a lesson kid, nobody worth talking to ever does.”

He had no idea what she meant, so he just nodded. She usually ended up being right about stuff. As a general rule of thumb. At first, he thought it was an adult thing. That they just knew more, but no it was just her.

The ringing of the bell announced the arrival of the Tremaines. _Oh joy._

They all stood at attention in the entry hall. His grandmother had decided to leave her apartments for the occasion. She was a withered, mean, and just impossibly old thing. even Henry’s parents called her a hag whenever they thought he wasn’t in earshot.

  “I can feel my bones calcifying as we stand here. Regina, precisely why do you require my presence? I know you're embarrassed of me.” His grandmother had a deadpan and direct manner that had probably been charming when she was younger but had soured with age.

  “Mother! We’re about to have guests. Now is not the time.” Henry couldn’t help but notice that she didn’t exactly argue against his grandmother’s point.

  “And besides you above everyone else should know the importance of appearances.” His mom smoothed down the ruffles of her skirt as she spoke.

  Henry watched his father roll his eyes. He looked distinctly uncomfortable in one of his nice suits, blue coat over white pants. It was always unusual to see him outside his leather gear. He always seemed to be playacting the part of the gentleman.

         The only person looking less excited to greet their guests than himself was Ella.  _ They do have history.  _ Her face was pale as a ghost and a painful kind of expressionless, where the effort was all too visible.

         Lady Tremaine was escorted to the drawing room by Emma and the rest of his family to talk or do whatever it is adults do at parties, leaving the girls with Henry.

         Anastasia had long, thin hair that framed her haughty, narrow face. She looked a lot like the porcelain dolls she probably played with when she was younger. Pretty enough on the surface but empty inside. She was the older one, and he could tell she’d rather be with the grown ups than being banished to the kids’ table.

Drizella was her opposite in most every way. Siblings always seemed to end up that way. Not that he would know from personal experience. Her face full with an almost pleasant, rosy glow.

         There was a spread of tea and biscuits laid out on the table between by either Emma or Ella. Henry was eager to dig in. But he stopped himself knowing it would be rude until his guests had the chance to take what they wanted first.

          Drizella selected one experimentally between her delicate fingers and then took a bite.

          “Dry. Needs jam.” Drizella called, “Oh Cinderella!”

          “Don’t call her that.” Henry had asked Ella about it once. Why the Tremaines always insisted on calling her that instead of her real name.

          It had taken some wearing down. And she only told him on the condition that he didn’t share it with anyone else. Even Emma. And so he promised. Crossed his heart and everything.

         That’s when he learned they were making fun of her for cleaning up after them. That she ended up doused in their dirt and grime, the ashes and cinders they left behind.  

“And why shouldn’t I?” Henry had a feeling it wasn’t often that Drizella was challenged about, well, anything. “The help should respond like a good dog would, to whatever name I happen to choose.”

“But it’s not her name,” he said with all the impatience of explaining something very, very obvious to an idiot. _Because that’s precisely what I’m doing._

         “And yours isn’t blunderbuss but I don’t see anyone else here complaining.”

_          Just you wait.  _ But he held himself in check. They were guests, which as far as Henry could gather from his mother and past experiences was a word that meant they could do whatever they wanted in his home.

          “Drizzy,” Drizella winced at the nickname.  _ I would too. I didn’t think Drizella could get any worse. But proved wrong yet again.  _ “Lay off, he’s just a kid.”

_           I’m not sure… is that supposed to be an insult? _

         “Not worth either of our time.”  _ Yeah definitely an insult.  _ Anastasia didn’t even have the decency to insult him to his face. Instead she lounged upon the sofa, arm over her eyes as if trying to nap.

         “Ana, be a dear and shut up.”

Anastasia did just that, evidently having no witty retort. _Or maybe she legit fell asleep. Disappointing._

“Cinderella!” Drizella was practically shrieking now. Henry could hear the footsteps move down the hall, pitter-patter against the hardwood like a mouse.   

“Stop it!”

“Make me.”

They went at it like two alley cats, although technically Drizella was the only one doing any clawing, her nails digging into his skin. It was a much more even match than he expected. Drizella might be older and bigger, but she was still a girl.         

         Anastasia was absolutely useless, just screaming her head off. High pitched and whining like a dog. Henry wouldn’t even have minded if she joined the fight on her sister’s side. If she would only be quiet.

The sounds of the scuffle drew the attention of the occupants of the drawing room. His father was the first to enter, wild eyed like a man in a warzone. But when he saw Drizella had Henry pinned on the floor, he just laughed, his lips settling into a wolfish grin.

His mother was by far less amused. “Just what on Earth is going on in here? Were you two fighting?”

The evidence was all too obvious for everyone to see. But Drizella still made the effort to release him and stand up, hands brushing away the dust from her skirts.

         Drizella declared in a huff, “A lady doesn’t start fights.”  

         His father quipped, “But she certainly seems to know how to finish them.”

         Drizella’s ears went crimson at that, while Henry could feel his already glowing cheeks deepen from rose to cherry.  _ He’s laughing at me. _

         Lady Tremaine whipped across the room, to comfort the wrong daughter. “Darling are you hurt? What did that nasty boy do to you?”

         Anastasia shoved her mother away, while Drizella glowered.

         Lady Tremaine wheeled on his parents, demanding, “Are either of you going to do anything about this?”

         Mother’s face was impassive like a mask at a masquerade ball but for her eyes, which had a cold heat about them, like the touch of frost on bare skin.

         His father merely shrugged. “Children play rough. No permanent harm, no foul. No consequences.”

         Lady Tremaine sniffed disagreeably. “That boy,” She wagged a boney finger in his direction, “Is need of some discipline. A proper education.” She practically spat those last three words out, lobbing them like spears.

         “That wild woman you employ as a chambermaid has half of one. And my former stepdaughter has simply no knowledge of practical application for any young gentleman.”

         Henry was instantly filled with outrage. Not on his own behalf. He didn’t much like Lady Tremaine, so if the feeling was mutual that just made disliking her that much easier.

         But Ella and Emma were the best people he knew. Kind and loving and smart and good. And no one should be insulting them or making them feel less than just because they didn’t have any fancy clothes or titles. 

Before he could speak, his father intervened. “Lad, perhaps you should step out for a moment.” His words made it seem like suggestion, but his tone and eyes brooked no opposition. In confirmation he ordered, “Emma, please escort Henry to the lawn.”

          As they walked together, Henry wallowed in his feelings. Well one especially.  _ Humiliation _ . That was the overriding emotion. That he let Drizella get a rise out of him. That he hit a girl. When everyone knows the first rule of chivalry is to protect them.  _ Even if they’re a pain in my butt. _

          There was also the not unimportant detail that he lost this particular fight.  _ She is older. And bigger. But still… _

          “Henry, I think you know that wasn’t behavior fitting for a gentleman of good standing.”

          He couldn’t quite meet her gaze, finding the lawn to be just too fascinating. He just didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t respond. And besides his silence was answer enough.  _ I messed up. _

          Finally, he decided to ignore her remark and said, “They can’t seriously be thinking about sending me away to a school.” He didn’t belong there. That was something for poorer boys, whose families couldn’t afford tutors. Or those who were unloved. Unwanted.

          “How much do you know about birds?”

          “I don’t really…” he trailed off as Emma made a face. “They make pretty songs and have feathers and fly.”  _ Kinda like how I wish I could just fly away from this whole mess. _

          “Yeah well to learn how to fly they get pushed out of the nest.” He must have made a face because she quickly added, “Only when they’re old enough and ready. But if they never got that push they wouldn’t have gotten the chance to explore and grow.”

          “So what you’re saying is that I’m a baby bird?” It sounded dumb even if he thought he was starting to get her point.

         “Well I wouldn’t go that far.” She held her hand to her chin in an exaggerated pose of thoughtfulness. “You’re much less cute to start with.”

         “Hey!” He didn’t really feel all that offended at the joke at his expense. He was just happy to have an excuse to laugh. To know that it was just another day, not the end of the world.

          They just sat there for what seemed like forever. Chatting aimlessly. And Henry could almost forget about the Tremaines and the awful sound of his father’s laugh.  _ Key word there being almost. _

          From their perch they could see the carriage waiting to take the Tremaines far, far away. They departed in a group, noses held high in offence. At this distance they looked like a mother duck guiding her mismatched children. And if this was the last time, he ever had to see them, he’d chalk the whole incident down as a victory.

          A shadow fell upon them, and they fell silent. The sun haloed his father’s face, giving him a look similar to what Henry imagined an avenging angel would look like, grim and unforgiving. Henry had been dreading this moment. The real reckoning.

         He didn’t quite know what to expect. His father could be acting the good cop before his mother swooped in with the hammer. Or maybe he’d be the sheriff of Nottingham this time, and she’d try to be his knight in puffy dresses.

        “I’m warning you now, there will be consequences for this boy. Apologies are in order.” _Sincere they won’t be._ “And not just words. That’s too easy. There’ll be some labor involved as well.”

         “I’m not anybody’s servant.” Henry folded his arms, trying to look tough, which was quite difficult after his father had seen him in such a compromising position. 

         “Then maybe you shouldn’t act like a common ruffian. Do we have an understanding boy?”  

         His father waited for him to nod in agreement before moving on. “There’s also the matter of your education. As loathe as we are to admit it…”

         Henry could see where he was going like a carriage accident in slow motion and risked interrupting. “You can’t! You just can’t. I won’t let you.” It was far too bold.

         A shadow passed over his father’s face. His voice was tight as he said, “I think you’ll find that your mother and I can force you to do most anything.”  _ I’d run away first. That’s what the kids in stories always do. I can live off the land. I’m small and quick, no one could catch me.   _

         “But we’ve come up with a solution that shouldn’t be too much of a hardship.” Henry’s ears perked up in interest, but he worked to keep his face neutral.  _ No need for high hopes that can get crushed in an instant. _

         “There’s a local school you can attend classes by day and return here every night.”

         “Really?” It had to be a trick. His parents never gave him anything remotely related to what he wanted. Not without a million different rules and conditions that defeated the purpose. This whole thing school thing could have gone so much worse.  

         “Aye, lad, really.” His father sounded tired. Almost old. Which was impossible. Old was reserved for his grandmother. His parents were ageless. Just always existing as they were, not young but not old either, the nebulous place in between.

         “Miss Swan, when you’re done with the boy, I have a matter that requires your attention. You’ll find me in the parlor.” The words came out stiff and awkward.

         With a flourish of his coat, he walked toward the manor. Henry couldn’t help but notice that Emma sighed as she watched him go. What kind of sigh, he couldn’t say.

***

         “Hello, my name is Ms. Blewett.” She wrote it upon the chalk board behind her in large neat letters as she spoke. “But you children may also call me Mother Superior.”  _ How bout I don’t weirdo. I have one mom and she isn’t you. _

         The teacher was dressed in a simple, conservative black dress with a white collar, brown hair pinned up in a circular braid. Everything about her from her voice to her appearance seemed simply, painfully boring.  _ I should just drop out now. Save us all a load of trouble. My parents have a million books at home, if I need to know something, I can just look it up. _

         The class itself met his terribly low expectations. The rows of wooden desks with children of all ages arranged at random. Well it seemed that way to Henry. But when he had first tried to sit in one, one of the older boys had walked up to him saying it was his seat. Henry conceded rather than get into fight on his first day. If he had to be in school, he might as well try to make some new friends and somehow a brawl didn’t seem likely to earn him many.

          Henry didn’t have many friends his own age.  _ Or really any.  _ He knew how to deal with adults. But what to do with people his own age-  _ the Tremaines definitely don’t count, I hope _ \- he had no clue. Not a single one.

          After class a different boy, about the same age as him if he had to guess, approached him. “New kid, what’s your name again?”  _ I guess that’s as a good a place to start as any. _

          Henry didn’t like that question. Sometimes he wasn’t even sure whether his last name was Jones or Mills. Unlike all married adults he knew, his parents had different last names. He didn’t think anything of it when he was little. And still had no idea what it meant, but now he was just self-conscious that it was weird and different. That was enough.

         “Henry, just Henry.”

“Hi just Henry,” the boy smiled to himself over his own joke. “I’m Gideon Weaver.”

“Like the priest?” Rector Weaver was the scariest man he knew. Dark and brooding and always raining hellfire from the pulpit whenever Henry attended a service. When Henry had been little, he had nightmares about him.

         Meanwhile Gideon seemed all laughing eyes and mischievous smiles.  _ He must look like his mom. _

         “Yeah like the priest.”

There was a beat of silence. Henry wasn’t quite sure what to say next, but he needn’t be worried. Gideon stepped in.

         “Did you know my mom’s French?”

“Does that mean she eats snails and frog legs?” This was the full extent of Henry’s knowledge of the French. That and they always seemed to be at war with them.

“Sometimes yeah.”

         “Wicked.” Henry was always getting in trouble with Emma and Ella for eating wild creepy crawlers he shouldn’t. _ If God didn’t intend for it to be eaten, he wouldn’t have put it on the Earth. Or at least would make it poison or something like that. _

A man was waving at Gideon, beckoning him over. He had a shady look. Something about the slant of his eyes. Or the ways his hands refused to stay still at his sides. Kind of like how Henry would imagine a thief would look like if he had ever seen one before. Although this particular thief was dressed like a gentleman. _The perfect disguise._

“That’s my big brother.” Gideon was waving back now. “Well half-brother, we have different moms.” _Weird._ Henry hadn’t heard of such a thing before. At least not talked about openly, as casually dropped into the conversation like idly chatting about the weather.

  When the man was closer, he gave Henry a once over. “Gideon, who’s your friend?”

          Before either of them could respond, his eyes lit up in recognition, evidently answering his own question. “Ah yes the Jones brat.”  _ I don’t know you.    _

          Henry swallowed his indignation. The tone said everything he needed to know. He could tell there was no love lost between this man and his father. Although it must be a very one-sided sort of rivalry, given he’s never heard of this person in his entire life.

         There wasn’t really a polite way to respond to that, and since the incident with Anastasia he was trying to be on his very best behavior.  _ I’m a good boy… mostly. _

         “Wait so you’re the son of that man with the hook?” Gideon pantomimed a hook with one hand. “That’s wicked!”  _ Oh, I like you. _

         “Henry!” Emma strode over. Henry was mildly disappointed. He thought maybe one of his parents might deign to pick up given it was the first day. But at least he had Emma.

         When she noticed Gideon and his brother, Emma looked much like Ella did that day when the Tremaines visited. Although instead of all that control in the service of hiding fear and loathing, she seemed angrier. Wired tight like a bear trap. Likely to just sock Neal in the jaw if such violence wouldn’t be shocking coming from a woman.

         “Emma Swan,” he let out a low whistle. “It’s been awhile.”  _ Wait he knows Emma? My Emma?  _ He never really thought of Emma as having a life outside of Misthaven Manor. Besides visiting her parents and running errands, she never left. Not ever.

         “Neal Weaver,” she said through gritted teeth.

Neal’s eyes crawled all over her body to the point that Henry felt uncomfortable but mostly confused. _Why is he looking at her like that?_ “You’re looking as fine a creature as ever.”

Henry could see Emma suck in a breath. “And you’re as well-mannered and gallant as I remember.” She had that tone in her voice that Henry had learned the hard way to recognize as sarcasm.

It was Neal’s turn to look uncomfortable. Henry exchanged a what-the-hell-is-going-on look with Gideon. He seemed no the wiser.

“Aren’t you curious when I got back in town?” He shifted his weight in her direction, trying to close the distance. “Or more to the point why?”

“Not particularly. But I have a lurking suspicion that you’ll tell me regardless of my wishes.”

“Don’t be like that Swan.” She flinched as he said her last name.

“I have duties to attend to.” She grabbed at Henry’s hand but missed the mark and ended up with Gideon’s instead. As she attempted to drag him away, he yelped.

She mumbled an apology and her iron grip to the correct boy. _Ouch!_

Henry said goodbye to Gideon.

During the walk home it seemed like Emma was in two worlds. Or maybe more accurately her body was present but her mind was elsewhere. Henry had no idea as to the where or when, but he knew it wasn’t with him.

“So you know Gideon’s brother.”

There was a long pause, leaving Henry unsure whether she was so lost in her thoughts that hadn’t heard him or merely didn’t want to answer. He was about to risk asking again, curiosity getting the better of him, but she stirred.

“Knew.” Her voice was distant. Henry got the sense she could be talking to the open air more than him. “A long time ago. Years. Lifetimes even.”

“Were you friends? Did you have a falling out? About what?”

She snapped back into focus. At first Henry worried it was to snap at him, but when she spoke it was weary. “Kid this isn’t twenty questions. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

_          That’s what grown-ups always say.  _ But Henry stayed silent, thought returning to Gideon Weaver.  _ Did I just make a friend? _


	4. Just A Kiss (was it only a kiss)

_      Men really are the root of all evil.  _ Eve may have gotten the bad reputation, but Adam was the one who fell willingly. No trickery needed, merely a pretty face he couldn’t get out of his head.  _ There is no question which head was at work. _

     There can be no sin without knowing the difference between good and evil. And between the priest’s son and the decorated war hero, one would think either man would know that difference and follow the more righteous path.  _ But they’re men. And so, they descend into the muck and mire, dragging me down with them. _

_No that’s not quite right. I bear some responsibility too. I should know better. Once bitten, I should be twice shy._ _  
_ Here she was falling into bed with a married man. A graver sin than sleeping with an unattached man before being wed. _I never learn. I just lurch from calamity to calamity, expecting a different result when all ends in heartbreak and soul-stains._

     Seeing Neal that day at the schoolyard had reminded her of what she had already lost.  _ And what I have still to lose, should I continue to stray down the path before me. _

     She had been tempted to take her retribution right then and there.  _ How dare he have the audacity to look well? To act as if nothing has happened in the years since our hideous parting. How dare my traitorous heart still skip a beat.  _ But Henry’s presence (as well as that of a good portion of the townsfolk, although she cared considerably less of what they thought of her) stayed her voice and hand both.

     It seemed he had become a permanent fixture of the town. At least till the impending wedding nuptials, if the elder Weaver should give his blessing. Neal had brought some foreign girl back, probably picked up on those travels they had planned together all those years ago.  _ Stupid, he was always going to be a worldly traveler, you just were fool enough to believe you would tag along. _

     Her name was Tamara. Emma had only seen her from a distance thus far, whenever she happened to be in town. The overwhelming impression was beauty and glamor, the kind that drove men mad with passion.  _ If they cared to name their base lust such a lofty word. _

     Tamara was staying at the Lucas Inn, so Ruby was able to give her the inside scoop.  _ “Pleasant enough but stand-offish. Razor wit when she deigns to speak to us.” _

     Emma wanted nothing more than to meet her replacement properly. But knew the potential that she was in fact superior in most every way would break her.  _ Best not. _

     Perhaps she was just thinking of Neal and Tamara to avoid more immediate problems.

_      It was just a kiss.  _ A sweet, beautiful, tragic fragment of love.  _ Given? Taken? _

_      Oh lord, it was a kiss. _

      Well to be precise there had been multiple kisses. And some vigorous petting. _And other things too._ It was enough to make her blush.  
And she was sure some starved, depraved part of her had marked down the exact number, carving it into her breast. And that same desperate, lonely part had frozen each moment in the amber to haunt her thoughts and dreams whenever she failed to keep busy. _Like now._

      “Emma, it’s quite heavy.” She could hear the strain in Ella’s voice, the thinnest veneer of politeness that stopped her from cussing Emma out.  _ To be honest, I probably wouldn’t have the restraint if roles were reversed.  _

       Before Emma could react properly, reality came crashing in, literally.  _ Well technically it was a heavy vase.  _ Emma was reluctant to look down lest it be shattered into a thousand and one pieces. _ That thankfully is sturdier than it looked. _

       “What is that racket? I swear if either of you have damaged anything of value…” The disembodied voice of Regina let the unsaid threat hang in the air, leaving the particular torturous consequence to their febrile imaginations.

        “Ella, don’t worry yourself. I’ll handle it.”   


        The girl made a disbelieving face.  _ Hey I’m strong! …when not distracted by boy problems. It’s enough to make one wish Henry VIII hadn’t dissolved the monasteries so I could join a convent and be done with the lot of them. _ _   
_

         Emma had been walking on eggshells around her since the incident with the Tremaines. Apparently Ella still felt guilty that Henry had started the fight on her behalf- neither of them would explain precisely why and Emma let them have their secrets.   


         But Ella’s self-flagellation seemed excessive. As if she was somehow responsible for that peculiar breed of madness unique to young men and boys.  _ The real question is if they ever grow out of it. _ _   
_

         “Fine but if Regina follows up, it was your idea.”  _ As if I would ever throw you to the wolves over this.  _ She left, whether to whittle away at yet another task or take a break Emma couldn’t be sure. Emma hoped it was the latter. Life was too short to waste it away working.   


         With considerable effort Emma righted the vase. And in its current location it would stay. It was close enough to where Regina wanted it. If she noticed, which she likely would, well the issue would be broached again then.   


         Emma went over to the window. The curtains were drawn open so she had a perfect view of the manor’s lawn stretching out. She remembered running out there as a kid, like Henry did so often now.   


         The lonely figure of Mr. Jones roamed the grounds, like a hound. Although what scent he was tracking, she had no idea. There was an aching hunger in his movements, and should she see his face, she was sure it’s countenance would look much like it did that fateful day. Her heart fluttered at the prospect of reliving it.     


         After the incident with the Tremaines, when Mr. Jones had summoned her for a private audience, well, she had been seduced.  _ Willingly. Seduction takes two participants. Like a dance. Although this particular dance had fewer clothes involved. _ _   
_

_         “Ms. Swan, may I call you Emma?”   _ The tentativeness behind the question had struck her off guard. She had long taken for granted a certain degree of thoughtlessness when addressed by her superiors, as if she was particularly clever piece of furniture that could perform tricks and tasks aplenty with nary a complaint.  _ “We have known each other the better part of ten years now. I feel as if we should address each other by our Christian names.” _ _   
_

        She had thought that he forgot himself in the haze of drunkenness. He had been drinking that whole day, self-medicating through the forced socialization with the Lady Tremaine. His cheek had that rosy hue about them. His face had that lolling repose unique to drunks and idiots.  _ Not that those categories are mutually exclusive. _ _   
_

_        “ _ _ Mr. Jones, it’s your prerogative.” _ _   
_

        She had been able to tell that was not the answer he had sought. Not enough feeling for his taste. And the continued use of the distancing honorific must have stung. But she hadn’t trusted herself to call him by his Christian name, even in the safety of her mind.  _ Frankly still don’t. It’s an intimacy too far. _ _   
_

        Emma had to laugh at the irony.  _ I know how he tastes but don’t dare speak his name. _ _   
_

_       “Well why yes, yes it is.”  _ He had been unsteady on his feet, from drink or nerves she hadn’t been able to tell. Or maybe she just retroactively read the nerves into the situation now that she knew his intentions.   


_       “Emma.”   _ He had exhaled it out, evidently savoring the sound. Her flesh had prickled with goosebumps, as if this was the first time she was properly hearing her name since Neal had breathed it to life all those years ago. Before he had snuffed it out.   


_       “Well Mr. Jones, if you have no task for me, may I be excused?”   _ It had been her old trick, whenever she could not stand to look at him directly. For sometimes his beauty was painful in the same way as staring directly at the glory of the sun. And she had no intention of being blinded by lust, whether his or her own.   


_      “ _ _ Did you know I have loved but one woman in my life?”   _ His non-response to her question had left her wondering if he hadn’t registered it or was merely ignoring it to extend their interaction.   


_      “Regina.” _ _   
_

      It hadn’t been a guess, merely a statement of fact. Marriage and love were two sides of the same coin. Any love outside its confines did not deserve that name.  _ Not that mitigates the heartbreak when it all inevitably turns to shit. _ _   
_

_      “No not her, Milah.” _   The name had rung a bell with Emma but she could not place it.  _ Still can’t. Though it feels as if it should be thunderously obvious.  _ There had been mild disappointment. That he admitted he cared not for Regina. That he dared to love another, but it wasn’t her.   


      She had felt her mask slip right back into place, sheltering her hurt feelings within.  _ “Well I hope she makes you very happy.”   _ Some of her bitterness seeped in, regardless of her intentions.   


_      “She’s dead.”  _ Emma had cursed at herself for not catching the past tense.   


_      “ _ _ I’m sorry for your loss.”   _ It was the rote thing to say in this situation and had felt wholly inadequate.   


_      “Well, it was a long time ago.”   _ She had wondered precisely how many lifetimes he had lived before this moment. How many girls. She was sure he was a heartbreaker, if only because to break someone else’s first, to care less, sheltered one’s own heart. Or at the very least seemed to. And if he had loved but once, well that was a man who guarded his heart. She could admire him for that, in her own twisted way.   


_     “You still haven’t answered my question sir.” _ _   
_

_     “I’m doing this all wrong. Aren’t I, Emma?" _ He hadn’t waited for a response.  _ “I’m trying to say I care for you. And I wanted you to understand that I don’t say those words lightly.” _ _   
_

     She had stood there still and mute as he closed the distance between them. He took one careful, deliberate step at a time, as if she was a deer liable to bolt at the slightest wrong noise.  _ Or he had been so inebriated he was likely to kiss the floor should he not be rooted to the earth.  _ She had wondered exactly how had he handled the situation with Henry with such grace, but when faced with her alone, revealed himself to be such sunken creature.   


     They had been inches apart. The thinnest pockets of air occupying the space between them. It would be so easy, too easy, just to reach out and grasp at him. To tear away that gentleman’s costume and see the man beneath. To trace the shape of him with her fingertips.   


     The room had felt impossibly hot. _No that was him._ And she felt a sudden thirst no water could quench. _I didn’t know I could still feel that way. I had shut away that version of myself for so long._ _  
_ So close. The tang of his alcohol tainted breath clung to him. She could practically feel his scruff. _Because of course he wouldn’t shave. His own miniature rebellion, to keep a part of himself in this ridiculous getup._ __  


      She had resisted the urge to look away from the intensity of his gaze, but instead met it head on. His eyes were the best of him, a whole world onto themselves. She could feel herself pulled forward   


_      “May I kiss you?” _ _   
_

      She could not quite remember who had lunged forward to make that first feverish contact. In her mind’s eye, she could see the event playing out both ways, her the shy maid and the lascivious harlot, him playing the part of the pure warrior Galahad and the fallen knight Lancelot.  _ No one really is just one or the other. Outside the stories. _ _   
_

      It mattered not; this wasn’t the kind of crime with an innocent party. _Even if Regina is the last person I would feel guilty about hurting, after all the suffering she’s put my family through._ _  
_ Besides her own confused feelings on the matter- _He’s a man. But what a gobsmackingly beautiful man-_ there was also the not insignificant detail that her livelihood was at his mercy. _Or Regina’s less than tender ones, should she discover it._ __  


And if it became common knowledge, it would all be pinned on her. She would be the siren- _no they would call me a whore, a mean base word for a mean base girl_ \- up to her old tricks. Or if by chance his culpability was recognized, it would be celebrated. Not openly of course. But men in their cups would toast to him, for taking that which they could only dream of seizing.   
But there was one thought that rose to the surface of her mind with greater insistence than the others, drowned out the concerns of the outside world. _Now that the floodgates of touch and feelings have opened, do I even have a choice left in the matter? Have I traded one precarious position for an even more perilous one?_

      “Admiring the view?”

      Emma nearly jumped out of her skin. Her gut was agitated as if she got vertigo from surfacing after having dived too deeply into her own thoughts. It was bit like waking up from a dream only to find herself trapped in a nightmare.   


      “Oh Miss Swan, did I startle you?” Emma could hear the satisfaction beneath the false concern. _Of course, Regina would choose this moment to take an interest in me._ __  
Emma mentally smoothed her ruffled feathers, shaking her head in mute answer. She usually found silence was the best response for whenever Regina sought to pick a fight. Then the woman couldn’t seize upon any ill-chosen word, digging in with her talons.  


      So Emma finally gave in and answered the original question, “The grounds are well kept.”  


      “Yes, everything has its place.”  _ Why do I get the sense you’re about to remind me of mine? As if my daily drudgery is not enough to keep it in mind. _ _   
_

      “My husband,” Regina clearly savored those words in all their possessive glory.   


      Emma flinched, unwillingly, at the reminder of her crime.   


      “Well, it seems he doesn’t quite understand his.”  _ She knows. How does she know? Did he confess to her in his alcoholic stupor, overwhelmed by the same guilt and shame eating away at me? _ _   
_

      “I have noticed lately he has been rather distracted.”  _ Oh, he’s been eyeing me for months now. Maybe even years. Or even all the way back to when I first stood in that doorway, hat in hand. _ _   
_

       Emma wasn’t sure when she had first noticed. Properly. That she had caught his attention. At first, she had dismissed it as an overactive imagination. The mind has a tendency to read what it wants into a situation, particularly when matters of the heart are concerned.  
In any event, Regina was slow on the upkeep if she was just discovering that the situation between her housekeeper and husband was sexually charged. _Perhaps she didn’t think it mutual until now. I’ll be the first to concede I can be cold and reserved. My heart hidden away in a sheath of colored glass._ _  
_

      “It would be such a shame if I had to release you upon the street.”  _ Only because you would lose your favorite chew toy. What is a bitch to do when she throws away the bone she’s been gnawing on for a decade.  _ _   
_

      “Particularly because I hear my lovely step-daughter is pregnant again after all this time.”   


      This turn took Emma by surprise. She didn’t expect that Regina would still keep up with her parents after all this time. She had assumed banishing them from Misthaven Manor was the last time that Regina had deigned to think of those she thought so beneath her.  _ But of course she’s pettier than that. _ _   
_

      “Congratulations on the future sibling, perhaps that will lessen the loneliness that clings to you like so much perfume.” Regina stood there with a thin-lipped smile that hinted at the fangs eager to dig in.   


      This almost broke Emma’s calculated calm. Less the personal dig, she was inured to them by now, more the implied threat to her family. She had been naive to assume Regina had forgotten them and that she wouldn’t do everything in her power to hound them to an early grave.  _ What did they ever do to you that deserved such vitriol, such hatred. _ _   
_

      “Don’t force my hand. As a mother, I want only the best for my charges.” _Only as far as they reflect on yourself._ _  
_ She cradled her stomach as she spoke, and Emma knew instinctively that Regina did not mean Henry but some new spawn growing in her belly. _That should be impossible._ __  


       She knew Regina had been young when she had married Emma’s grandfather, but she did not think it still possible that the woman could still conceive.  _ Surely such a bloodless creature couldn’t still have a monthly discharge. _ _   
_

_        And when was the last time those two shared the same bed?  _ Although Emma would be the first to acknowledge that it can only take but one planting for that particular seed to sprout.   


      “Congratulations on your own pregnancy.” Decidedly not dismissed, Emma stormed off. Hopefully she drained some of the power from Regina’s smirk.  _ Even better if she’s just self-conscious about growing stouter. A woman of her age does have such difficulty maintaining her figure. _ _   
_

      Having escaped Regina’s talons, Emma resisted the urge to do the obvious but foolish thing and scurry straight to Mr. Jones. If she or Cora noticed, it would only confirm any suspicions. So instead Emma agonized through the rest of her routine, waiting for an opportunity to steal her quasi-lover away for a moment. Surprisingly Regina did not follow up with her, perhaps sated for now.  _ I’m sure I’ll pay for it, one way or another. _ _   
_

      But with any luck, she had a champion in her corner.  _ Assuming he can bear to look at me after I revealed myself to be such an easy woman. _ _   
_

      She found him in his study. She knocked on the always locked door.   


      “We need to talk.”   


      He opened the door, just the smallest crack so she couldn’t see past him to the contents within. Mr. Jones looked irritated and so gorgeous, as if determined to make this as difficult as possible.   


      “What did Henry do now? You know I do prefer you went to Regina first with these things. It is more her area.”   


      “What?” She shook her head. “No, nothing like that.”   


      “Out with it woman. I have private matters to attend to.”  _ Well fuck you too. _ _   
_

      She took a deep breath, steeling herself. “We can’t keep doing this.”  _ Although it really hasn’t been an ongoing concern now has it. Just one night. And since then he’s reverted to form. As if nothing happened. Nothing at all. _ _   
_

      She had assumed he wanted to keep his distance for both their sakes. Perhaps he wanted to leave the initiative in her hands. Or he was embarrassed at his drunkenness. Regardless Emma had been appreciating the space to sort out her own feelings at least until this very moment.   


      “Doing what precisely Miss Swan?” A younger Emma would have taken that as a particularly good bit of acting, maybe a stupid joke to wind her up, but he was far too sincere in his confusion. Not breaking character as he furrowed his brow and frowned.   


       “The other night. There can’t be a sequel. We’ll also need to keep our distance. Regina. She’s noticed a change.” She was merely trying to be tactful, but from the look he gave her, she might as well be speaking in Hindustani.   


       “I really have no idea what you’re talking about.” And with that all half-formed dreams of companionship and romance were ground to dust. He wouldn’t acknowledge her because he had gotten what he wanted from her. Sweet release.  _ If only for a night.  _   


       If she had been in a different position in her life-  _ more Emma Woodhouse, less Charlotte Lucas _ \- she would’ve responded with unbecoming violence-  _ a slap across his too pretty face _ \- and harsher language. But as it stood…   


      “Well then I suppose there’s nothing to discuss.” Perhaps too curt but it was the best she could manage under the circumstances. She brushed at nonexistent dirt on her skirts, unable to meet his gaze. To see further visual confirmation of what a fool she had been.  _ Again. _ _   
_

      She ran.  _ I’m really making a habit of dramatically leaving my employers.  _ It wouldn’t last. She’d be on her parents’ doorstep, a failure, soon enough. Unmarried, twice sullied. No future and no prospects.     


      There were woods at the edge of the property proper.  _ A destination.  _ Shelter from the hateful light of the sun that laid bare all her failings for all to see. She didn’t stop for anything, even though her outfit made the escape much more difficult than when she had run across the lawn as a girl.   


_       Arrival.  _ Out of breath, equally from the sprint and the sucker punch that he had cared for her not. She sank to the ground, buckling under the weight of what she had done. Ten years’ worth of repressed tears burst their dam as she sobbed. The woods were silent. And as there was no one to hear her cry and no witnesses to her tears, did it really happen at all?


	5. A Man Without Honor

_I’m a complete and utter idiot._ Like all such revelations it came far too late in the game to influence its outcome, at least decisively. Instead he had stood there, slow and confused, cruel and dismissive in his ignorance. _No wonder she can’t bear to look at me now._

 _I thought it was but a dream._ A brief respite from the nightmare that he was living. All those half-remembered fragments jumbled together in his head from the drink. It had to be. That he would dare broach his feelings. That she would reciprocate in words and deeds. _And a similar scene plays out in my head most every night, mere compensation for all the night terrors._  

 _It had just been the most perfect dream._ Or so he thought. He cursed at himself for being so slow to connect the two in the moment. _Of all the times not to have my wits about me._

          It took everything he had to convince Regina not to sack Emma on the spot after that horrid day of outbursts and insubordination. He had to appeal to all her worst impulses, just as he had when he first advocated for hiring the girl. _The best tortures- well of course Regina thinks they’re justice, only God knows why- are enacted in person._

          And when that unpleasant but necessary task had concluded, they had fucked. _It’s not quite selling my body if I derive some pleasure from the act._ It always seemed to happen when they raged at each other, like a much too pleasant release that prevented the pot from ever boiling over, drowning the both of them in rage and sorrows.

 _Speak of the dark queen._ Regina’s presence was never a subtle thing. If she didn’t announce herself with that brash voice of hers, her overwrought finery instantly attracted the eye. _And she is beautiful, in the same way as ice, striking and cold._

“I have an announcement to make.” _Aye so you do. Why must every word with you be a whole production?_ In another life she clearly belonged on the stage, emoting, ranting, and raving, with nothing but the accolades she so clearly craved for her efforts. But Regina was the kind of woman who thought an actress just a half step above a prostitute.

          A beat of silence dragged on too far, so he took the bait, if only to speed up the conversation. “Are you really going to make me ask?”

          She let loose a small huff, evidently offended at being rushed. “I would think a second-time father to be would be eager to learn of that fact.”

          He didn’t quite process what she said. “Wait? So you’re…”

          “Yes, I’m with child.” _That’s… unexpected._ He swallowed his shock, hoping she didn’t notice. _She’d surely find some more offense in it. As if I had called her an old hag._

          Suddenly her seemingly compulsive need to paw at her stomach made sense. _And here I just thought she was self-conscious about her weight._

          But it was decidedly unusual for a woman to announce the fact before she showed, the risk of miscarriage being so high in even these modern times. _Perhaps she thinks speaking the babe aloud into existence will be a protective charm against such evils._

         She was looking up at him, expectantly, an almost tender expression upon her face that she had previously reserved for Henry and their wedding night. He would call it love if he did not know her better. _Her affections are as constant as the tumult of the sea._

         “Cheers to us love.” He forced a smile. _Well only half of it is forced, I’m torn._ “Perhaps we should hire some more help, given you will be indisposed.” Not that she did much work besides supervision, but he figured it a nice gesture to give her yet another pawn to boss around.

         “Nonsense, the girls will be able to pick up any slack, and my mother is an experienced hand in the ways of midwifery.” _Those hands are rather arthritic now if you hadn’t noticed._

         “I defer to your judgment. I trust you.” _Only so long as we face each other, hands and hearts out in the open._

         She chuckled. No that didn’t seem right. Regina never did anything as casual and light and airy as a chuckle. “Well I would hope so after all these years.” _A dozen years of marriage._

         The realization hit up like a cannonball to the gut. It was thrice as long as he had been with Milah. _A depressing thought._ He suddenly felt impossibly old. _And she’s older yet than me._ Though he did not know the exact count, she thought it rude to ask after a lady’s age.

         “Speaking of my mother, I ought to share the good news. It’s not every day one gets to announce the future arrival of a grandchild.” _Certainly not often in this household._

         And as Regina left, a peculiar skip in her step, he was left alone once more. He could finally process his feelings without worrying how he appeared to her. There would be no judgment except from his own inner demons, who were old familiars after all this time.

          So he was to be a father. _Again, Henry does count, though he’s not of my blood._ His feelings were mixed to say the least. Before adopting Henry, it was not as if they hadn’t been trying with sufficient zeal. _Those halcyon honeymoon nights._ He had just assumed she was barren. _I suppose the problem could have been with me, neither of us had conceived… until now._

          Regardless of his feelings, a new child complicated things moving forward. _Sometime s my life feels like God and the Devil are gambling with my life, seeing how far they can pull me toward the light then shadows then back again before I’m torn asunder._

          The angel advocated to hold fast to his marriage vows, to take advantage of this new life, brought worth by their union, as the second chance it so self-evidently represented. While the devil whispered that now was the time to bolt, before the iron chains of obligation and duty bound him further to a dead-end future till his dying days. Perhaps such a bold, wild move would convince Emma of his true devotion and she’d accompany him, forgiving him for the gravity of his error.

           But he couldn’t help but speculate about what little creature was brewing within Regina. Would they be kind or cruel? Whip smart or duller than the Tremaines? Have the laughing eyes that he always felt were Liam’s or Regina’s cool exterior?  

           And it would need a name. The last time he had allowed Regina to overrule his wishes and name Henry after her own father. But now he had a chance to honor Liam’s memory. _Or if it’s a girl, Milah’s. Although me thinks Regina will be a tad less accommodating for an ex-paramour._

            But there was little point daydreaming if he took the leap and went for broke with Emma. To leave would mean surrendering any and every part of that child’s life. Regina would poison them against him forevermore if he dared to darken these halls again. No, to leave would be a permanent exile. The idea of it excited him, awakening something long dead and numbed to the tedium of existence. _Strike while the iron is hot._

           He strode off to find Emma, determined to try to salvage things. If even the prospect of (yet another) child with Regina wasn’t enough to tie him to her, it was time to move on. _I have but one life, and I won’t spend it sulking in dusty halls, resenting everyone and everything._

           She was working away- _what else_ \- tidying the drawing room. There was a slight hiccup. Henry’s presence, the boy reading away at that fairy tale book, nearly swallowed by the armchair. _I really thought that hiding it among the nautical atlases would trip him up for a little while longer._ He was idly curious how long the boy would manage to keep it a secret from Regina this go around.

           A sudden stab of guilt struck his abdomen. If all went according to plan, he’d never know. He was sorely tempted to offer Henry the option to run away with them, even if dragging a child along in tow would lessen the romanticism of the escape

           It would never work. Regina would certainly hunt to the very ends of the Earth to get her son back. And it would be cruel to ask a child to choose between his parents, and Henry was certainly too young to make a choice he wouldn’t later regret. _I say as if such choices have an age limit._

          “Henry, would you leave Miss Swan and I alone for a moment?”

          The boy sighed, deeply, but gathered his belongings to exit the room.

          “Surely anything you have to say to me can be said in front of the younger Mr. Jones, sir.”

          He shook his head for Henry’s benefit. “Some matters can only be freely discussed among adults.” He could tell the remark wounded Henry’s pride, so he offered a sop, “Sorry lad, you’ll understand when you’re older.”

          Henry hesitated at the threshold, clearly curious but the instinct to obey had been hammered into him by Regina. _Odds are he’ll find a way to eavesdrop._ Killian could remember a certain boy who got his ears boxed for that troublesome habit all the time.

          Killian checked the hall to make sure Henry had truly gone, and then shut the door behind him, turning his full attention to the problem of one Emma Swan. This moment was his chance to make things right. Or at least make the attempt, so as to avoid moping in regrets and hindsight’s blinding glare. _Like I have with Milah for all these years._

          “Look Emma,” he started, ready to let loose the whole spiel he had been rehearsing in his head since the moment he realized his error and the depth of the hurt he had caused.

          But she interrupted him, voice as curt and uncaring as a blade’s edge. “Miss Swan if you please.”

          “Miss Swan,” he corrected himself reluctantly, taken aback by this modest act of resistance. _When has she ever denied me anything?_

          “I think there is cause to reopen the discussion on the other night.” _A do-over._ Emma was his chance for a second act worth living.

          She folded her arms in front of her chest, chin titled up in defiance. “And precisely what discussion would that be sir?” _Fair enough. I’ll even forgive that insolent tone._

          “Look I did not intend to dismiss your concerns so harshly that day. I only…” _Forgot our passions in my drunkenness._ Somehow he suspected saying that aloud would do him no favors.

          “I just didn’t expect that you would have wanted to continue it in the first place.” _Oh nice save, I should pat myself on the back after this is all done._ “Given the sensitivity of your position, I didn’t want to put you in an awkward spot.”

          “I don’t know what kind of woman you’ve spent company with.” _It is a very limited set. You are the third. At least among the ones that mattered._ “But generally disavowing us doesn’t inspire confidence that you have our best interests at heart.”

          He was fighting on losing ground. And would only sink further into the mud pursuing this particular conversational thread. It was time to see if his gambit of laying his heart on the line would pay dividends.

          “We could run away.” Her face was blank. “Right now.” Her hazel eyes saw right through him, where once they just saw him. “Just the two of us.” A fresh start. _And I’ll finally have you all to myself._ “Haven’t you ever wanted to see the great cities of the world?”

           He leaned in, trying his best to summon his most seductive voice. “Paris.” _The Salons. The wine. Notre Dame._ “Rome.” _The Colosseum. The fountains. The villas dotting the countryside._ “Vienna.” _Coffee. The zoo. Mozart._

            Her non-reaction led him to babble on. He was pretty sure he’d promise her a cottage on the moon at this delicate juncture. “Doesn’t even have to be a city. Point to any place on the globe, and we could be happy there. Away from all this.” _This accursed house. The ghosts, both living and dead that haunt and go bump in the night, tormenting me._

            He reached out to her, wanting merely to hold her hand. To feel the warmth of her. To press upon her the true depth of his feelings. To confirm that he was alive with the spark of human connection.

           “Don’t.”

            Denial, whisper soft but firm and unyielding. He might as well waste his breath trying to convince a mountain to tremble in the breeze.

            She repeated again. “Don’t.”

            Her voice steadily rose in a crescendo. “Don’t.”

            She practically spat out each word, hurling them like sonic missiles.

            “You.”

            “Dare.”

            “Touch.”

            “Me.”

            He winced as each one hit their intended mark, striking his heaving heart.

            He let her struggling arm go, backing away to signal that he meant no harm. _I would not have you, not like that._

           “But the other night. You expected… wanted…” He was struggling to find a way to name her desires without seeming to shame her for them. _Or maybe I’m projecting my own upon her. Her heart likely hardened the moment I seemed to reject her that day._

            Her jaw set in. “Forgive me for not wanting to be fondled by a man so callous he would abandon his pregnant wife and leave behind his children.”

            He could not stop his irritation from rising to the surface. _Why must you always make this so difficult?_ “You know better than I that Regina has never lacked for anything under this roof. That need not change. And when was the last time that boy needed anything from me.”

            She shook her head, disappointed. “Then you are blind to his affections.” _The boy should abuse himself of any notions that his father is a good man. Just as I outgrew my own father from a tender age._ “Just as you were to mine.” _I knew it._

            “And here I am,” he dramatically lowered himself to the ground, so that she may look down on him as he so often did on her. “On bended knee, begging my lady for forgiveness and offering the whole world as compensation for my mistakes.”

            “This is not a first time a man has offered me the glamour of a romantic escape. And yet here I’ve remained all these years.” Killian felt a twinge of jealousy.

            “Aye and why should I be any different than that other fella.” _I did break her trust once, and she doesn’t seem like the type to forgive and forget quickly._

            He had to convince her, that his intentions, while by no means pure, “But you can’t be happy with your current station in life. Take a leap.”

            “And trust that it just won’t get worse, never. It all just sounds like running away.” _That is precisely the point my dear, you watch us run._ She sounded exasperated now. “And besides you said your marriage vows before witnesses.”

 _And what precisely was the point of Henry VIII breaking off from the papists if not to allow for divorce._ But of course, narrow minded people would talk. The scandal of it all. _Are we forever doomed to be held prisoner by our pasts?_

            Emma hammered on lest he dare attempt to refute her. “And a faithless man will only relapse. You’ll leave me stranded in some strange land when you’ve found the next shiny object that has caught your wandering eye.”

            She infuriated him now. He could be accused of many sins: insufficient piety, drunkenness, unsociability. But having a wandering eye… never. _I was loyal to Milah to the bitter end._

            “My eye has not wandered from your glorious sight these past few years.” He was perhaps laying it on a bit too heavy, but he could feel her slipping away. And there would be no moving on, not as long as they shared accommodations under the same roof.

            She was silent for a moment, perhaps acknowledging the undeniable truth of his words. _The servants observe everything. It’s as if the walls really could talk._

            But a retort parted her sweet lips soon enough. “Men often want that which they can’t have. And once they have seized their prize, toss it aside once they had their satisfaction.”

_Now we’re just going in circles. There must be some way to breach this impasse._

            “I could always fire you.” _An empty threat. But desperation and anger make men mad._

            As her face hardened, he realized the gravity of his mistake. _For all the invention of this modern age, they’ve yet to create a device that let’s one unspeak ill-chosen words. Or freeze time to allow for the proper self-reflection before shooting oneself in the mouth._

            “Don’t bother,” Her fingers were working away at her apron, untying it. “I quit.” She tossed it aside, turning on her heel, making the dramatic exit that he was starting to suspect was the hallmark of her true self. The one she hid and suppressed while indenturing her life away in menial service. _All for my benefit. Do I really know her at all?_

            She didn’t look back. He waited, eyes burrowing into the back of her skull, willing her to meet his gaze one last time. Instead she stomped on, her every step pounding against the floor as if she meant to pummel it as a proxy for the true cause of her rage.                                                                                      

_I’ve lost her now. Properly and forever._

            He remained there for a while, his thoughts as his only company. Every time he relived the conversation, each imagined permutation ended right where he stood, unhappy and alone. He couldn’t conceive of a world where his mad plan had succeeded, not anymore. It had not survived contact with reality.

            But something kept niggling away in the back of his head, distracting somewhat from his self-pity party. A question that filled the mental space left behind now that the rush of emotions had finished cascading out of him.  

_Precisely how and why did she already know Regina was pregnant?_

 


	6. A Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

_Gideon Weaver is going down in history as my cause of death._ They had ditched class today. All on his whim. Right before class he had just suggested it out of the blue. And Henry went along because, well, school was kind of shit.

            Henry was sure their absence had been noted and that their parents would be alerted through the proper channels. And given the fearsome reputations of Rector Weaver and his folks, they were both dead boys walking. _Just another reason to make the most of this last day of freedom._

            “What are we looking for again?” They were hiking in some woods on the outskirts of town, the better to lark about unobserved by curious passersby.

            Of course, these same woods had been haunted for years and years. _Because otherwise what would be the fun._ There was supposed to be some kind of big bad wolf that ate livestock that wandered off and unwary travelers. _And little boys and girls who disobey their parents._ Although his mom might have added on that bit to scare him when he was little.

            Or it could be some kind of half-wolf, half-man thing depending on which version of the story was told. _Like that one in my fairy tale book. The wolf-man and the girl in the red cloak._

           “Well what kind of signs do you think a wolf would leave behind. Fur, paw-prints, claw marks, and the like.” Gideon was talking very confidently for someone who had definitely never seen a wolf in his whole life. The closest he would have gotten was when he saw a stray dog that happened to wander into town.

           “Sorry, what I really meant to ask was why are we looking for it?” It still wasn’t clear what two boys armed with a couple (admittedly cool looking) sticks they had found in the brush were supposed to do if they ran into the monster of Storybrooke Wood. _Besides poke it with a stick!?_

           Gideon taunted, “You’re not scared, are you?”

           The gauntlet was thrown. Henry puffed out his very flat chest because he was a strong man (albeit in training) who clearly wouldn’t be (and wasn’t!) afraid of anything. However, his denial came out as anything but smooth and deep.

           “Oh you totally are!” _I suppose I should be flattered he didn’t think I was scared before._

           Henry’s cheeks reddened in yet another stunning betrayal by his body.  

           “Am not!” His voice continued to be squeaky, like how he imagined a mouse would speak if they could talk. _With you know words._

           “Are too!” Gideon was laughing now, whether with or at him, Henry wasn’t sure.  

           “There’s nothing to be scared about!” Henry was finally able to modulate his voice, a tad. _Is this what puberty is going to be like? Because if so, hard pass._

            Sensing his performance wasn’t convincing anyone, he went on, “It’s just a stupid story.” _That I definitely believe but he doesn’t need to know that._ “Besides even if it’s true it’s only supposed to come out during a full moon.”

            Henry always wondered about that bit, why the full moon was so special. _Wouldn’t the big scary monster going bump in the night be scariest at a new moon when there wasn’t any light_ _to see it coming?_

           “Henry you do know that you can sometimes see the moon during the day too. It’s even up there right now as we speak.” Gideon wiggled his fingers and added ohs for an attempted creepy effect.

            Henry’s totally cutting retort stuck in his throat when the air reverberated with the sharp crack of a stick breaking under the weight of something… big. _Gulp._

            “Okay nice joke Gideon, who did you to do your dirty work? Alice? Margot? Roland?” Henry could have just kept on listing classmates till he hit the right member of the usual suspects. 

            “Henry it’s not me. Honest.” As Gideon spoke, his words were punctuated by yet more cracks. Louder this time, which meant closer. _Double gulp._

            Gideon brandished his stick in the general direction of the noise, coming from the other end of the clearing. The underbrush shook as something approached, making its way toward them. _It’s probably just someone taking a stroll through the woods. The creature wouldn’t be active now._ Henry couldn’t help but glance up through the canopy and see that the full moon was hanging in the sky, taunting him.

             Refocusing on the situation at hand and suddenly remembering his own stick, Henry held it out like a proper weapon he desperately wished he actually had. _Or better yet, I could not be here._ The prospect of Ms. Blewett’s lectures never seemed so good.

             “We’re gonna charge. On my count.” _A terrible idea._ But also at least they’d have the element of surprise. And it wasn’t like Henry had the time to come up with a better one or talk Gideon out of it. Whatever was approaching them was going to be on top of them any moment.

             “Go!”

             Their war cries were less primal screams and more generalized screeching. Their foe sidestepped out of the way and they ended up butts on the ground, tailbones aching.

             “Whoa there, you kids could poke somebody’s eye out.” _I know that voice._

             Henry scrambled to his feet to see a familiar figure towering above him. Neal Weaver stood there, apple in hand, one eyebrow cocked up, and an amused smile curling at the corners of his lips.

             “And anyway, what are you two young lads doing out of school this early in the day?”

             Caught red-handed, Gideon stammered out, “Yeah, about that Neal…”

             Neal cut him off, “Take it easy kid. No need to waste your breath.” 

             Henry steeled himself to get a scolding, but Neal surprised him yet again. “You’ll get plenty of lectures from your parents later. Save the crocodile tears and those breathless, fanciful explanations for them.”

             “So you’re not going to rat us out?” Gideon asked, eyes narrowing as suspicion creeped into his voice.

             Neal laughed, a merciless glint in his eyes. “Now who said anything about that?” _Just when we thought we might be in the clear._

             “Neal!” Gideon could really up the whine factor when he wanted to. And as grating as it was on his ears, Henry knew grown-ups suffered worse.

             “Oh come on, it’s not every day one ambles through the trees on a peaceful walk only to run into one’s kid brother and their dutiful sidekick.” _Hey! If anything Gideon is my sidekick!_ Exempting today’s adventure of course, but every sidekick has their day in the sun.

             “Although if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were a bad influence Henry. As far as our father is concerned, Gideon has never done a single wrong thing in his blessed life.”

             Henry didn’t quite understand Neal’s meaning, only a general sense of something being… off. Although he was pretty sure it wasn’t about him, so he was in the clear. _At least for now._  

             “Gideon I’ll give you a head start to spin whatever tale you’ll end up telling good old dad and Belle. I need a word with your young friend here.”

             A shiver involuntarily went down Henry’s spine, as if a spirit or specter had passed through his body. He gave Gideon a pleading look not to be left alone with Neal. However Gideon seemed rather eager to instead cash his cheque for freedom. _I’ll be sure to chew him out about it next time I see him._

             Neal eyed him, face unreadable. He was clearly searching for something with that look. But Henry didn’t know what and so couldn’t give it to him to get him to stop. If years under the thumb of his parents hadn’t taught him a healthy (…ish) respect for authority and adults, he’d have run for the hills by now. There was also a certain curiosity at work even with the creep factor involved.

             Once sure they were alone Neal asked, “Henry, how much do you understand about the creation of babies?” _What?_ At first Henry thought he misheard him or mistook his meaning given how unexpected this line of questioning was. 

             Of course, Henry understood the basic mechanics of adult relations from some very graphic books that his father had managed to hide from Regina among the naval atlases. For some reason the elder Mr. Jones thought it the safest hiding place in the house when that was clearly his own study. But he didn’t understand the relevance of that to the whatever Neal was angling at.  

             “Enough that I know storks don’t plop them into the laps of parents.”

             Neal snorted at the image, before composing himself to say whatever serious important thing required Henry to stay here. “Well sometimes God is cruel and denies his children the chance to have children of their own. And in those desperate times they turn to alternative sources. The thousands born unwanted with no claim to any name.” _But everyone has a name. That’s just how names work._ It was like trying to imagine a day without the sun.

             “Your mother and father were such people. And I’m pretty sure a desperate Emma Swan surrendered her first born to them.”

             Henry’s ears perked up at the mention of his friend. “But I don’t have any brothers or sisters.” And Henry was pretty sure he’d remember if Emma had any children.

             “My point exactly. I forget you’re still a child. I’ll have to make myself more plain.” _Don’t patronize me._ “Henry, what I’m trying to say is, well, I think I’m your father. You’re that baby that Emma gave up.”

             Henry backed away slowly, suddenly realizing that he was alone with more or less a complete and utter stranger. A crazy stranger talking absolute nonsense with far too much conviction.

             Neal inched forward as if approaching a deer liable to flee at the first sign of trouble. _He’s not wrong._ “Henry, I’m sure this is confusing for you. I’m sure you have questions and I can give you the answers.”

             “I don’t need answers, not from you!” It would only be more confusing. He didn’t trust Neal further than he could throw him (which given Henry couldn’t even lift the man, must less toss him across any length of pitch, meant less than nothing).

             He raced home. Neal made no move to follow him, which surprised Henry given the effort Neal went to orchestrate a one on one encounter. It just…wasn’t true. But it could be. But it shouldn’t be. His parents would never have lied about something so big. _But but but…_

             He never thought he looked much like his parents. And by definition children should look like their parents, at least in part. No one ever said anything like that to him. Ever. He didn’t have any siblings to compare to. _When I look at my reflection, whose face is staring back at me?_

             Safely within the familiar manor walls, he searched wildly. _Would this even be considered my home if Neal has the truth of it?_

             His mother occupied the drawing room. He didn’t even waste time trying to catch his breath, diving straight into the question burning in his brain. “Where’s Emma?” _An innocent enough question._

             He had noticed earlier that she hadn’t taken him to school today. Ella had instead. _Which did make ditching so much easier. Ella is way more trusting._ Emma just must have been busy. He hoped she wasn’t on her way to the school now to pick him up.

             “Ask your father.” His mother’s cheeks were flushed red like the apples of her orchard, the same way they looked after spending a long time with company, drink(s) in hand.

             “I have something really important to ask her.” _Although maybe I should talk to mother first. No need to embarrass myself in front of Emma._ “But I could ask you instead.”

             Her gaze burrowed into him, prying, judging, but she consented to indulge him, “Go on.”

             “Am I really your son?” It sounded stupid when he said it aloud. Like Neal was playing some elaborate prank on him to embarrass him. But it was just too weird an idea. He couldn’t get it out of his head. He needed to know, one way or the other. Just to have it settled so he could move on without it eating away at him.

             She laughed, not unkindly. He knew what that sounded like, almost a witch’s cackle. “And what kind of silly question is that?” _She never takes me seriously._ He also noticed that she never outright called him stupid but would freely say he was silly or made no sense. All so… belittling. _Just watch I’ll be taller than you in a couple years, try talking down to me then._

            “It’s just that Mr. Weaver, the rector’s older son,” Henry felt that it was very important to clarify he wasn’t talking about Gideon or winding her up on a dare from his friend. “He seems to think I’m his son with, um, Emma.” Henry didn’t know why his housekeeper and his mother had bad blood, but he had long learned the quickest way to set off one was to mention the other in their presence.

            “He was lying.” He tried to imbue the words with a belief that he couldn’t quite muster. “Wasn’t he?”

            The question hung in the air above them, a dark cloud ready to unleash a storm. But before it broke, silence. His mother was evidently weighing her options on how to respond. Her unusual hesitation all but confirmed his suspicions that something was up. _It should be the easiest no from a woman who loves that word._

            “Of course you’re my son Henry.” The initial wave of relief soured when he noticed that well… _You’re not answering my question._ “Now enough of this nonsense, Ella tells me you weren’t waiting for her outside the schoolhouse. You know I don’t like you walking home unaccompanied.” _Storybrooke is the place stories go to die. Nothing ever happens here. I don’t know why she’s always so worried._

            “No.” A simple declaration of intent. He would not be browbeaten into dropping the matter at his mother’s convenience.

            “I’m sorry, what did you just say?” Regina leaned forward with her eyes narrowed in threat. Henry could tell she intended to give him an out, to back down with his person still intact.

            “You didn’t answer my question.” _I’ll play the brat if it gets me what I want. Hell I’ll play it till I get what I want._

            It was almost as if an aura of flames briefly surged about his mother before she regained control of her features. She sighed, deep and slow. “Henry, I was waiting to have this conversation with you when you were older.”

            “I’m not a little kid anymore, why do you still treat me like one?” He was done with adults treating him as less than a person, like some sideshow that didn’t have feelings or a personality besides saying things that they seemed to always find amusing.

            “Because Henry to me you’ll always be that sweet baby Rector Weaver placed in my arms all those years ago.” She sounded almost wistful, the usual fire dampened out of her voice.

            “Wait, so you knew!” His head was spinning from the betrayal, the lies and secrets that had been allowed to fester for his whole life. It was one thing to be adopted and for his parents to wait to tell until he was old enough to understand. Another to keep his origins a secret to stop him from developing a proper relationship with a parent just within reach.

            “My real mother was in this house all this time. And you didn’t tell me. Does she know?”

            His mother winced, an expression so uncommon upon her features that it took Henry a moment to recognize it for what it was, a crack in her perfect facade.

            “Yes Henry, I knew where Rector Weaver procured that baby. It was no secret that Miss Swan was pregnant and in no position to support a child. To love and cherish a new life. Not like me.” She gestured to their comfortable surroundings, all the pretty decorative touches that served no purpose beyond being pleasing to look at.

            “But I swear, I never knew of his own relation to you. To think that man pawned off his own flesh and blood, his own grandson.” _Doesn’t make it better that you lied about my mom. I couldn’t care less Rector Weaver is my grandfather._

He just didn’t seem like the type of man to be kind. Someone he’d want to know and be attached to in a familial way. Not like Emma. He already loved her, and he was pretty sure she loved him. _Even if its kind of her job. But that’s how mothers work too._        

            “And enough of this nonsense about ‘real’ mothers. I was the one who raised you, ensured that you wanted for nothing all these years. All so you would live the best possible life. One that was denied to me as a child.”

            Henry was mystified now. His mother never talked about her past, not in any real and substantial way. She seemed to have always been this secure at her perch on the top of society. To have the ability to solve all of her problems with the flick of the wrist or throwing guineas in their general direction.

            “This unfortunate discovery changes precisely nothing Henry. Neal Weaver and Emma Swan have no claim to you or your affections.” She sniffed disagreeably.

            “But that’s not your choice to make!” She clearly didn’t understand why he was upset. He didn’t resent her for his childhood, which give or take the struggle over the fairytale book and school, had been pretty storybook.

            “Listen well to my words Henry, mother knows best.” And for the first time in his life, Henry wasn’t reassured by those words. _You know nothing. You act like you know everything. But you know nothing. Are all adults faking it?_

            “Yes mother.” He didn’t mean it, but she seemed reassured by this token show of respect, the restoration of the natural order of things. “May I be excused to study?” She nodded her ascent, freeing him to do precisely not that.

            Henry scoured the house for his father. It was his only chance to find a clue for Emma’s whereabouts and get the man he called father’s side of the entire tale. His mother’s words about his father being involved in Emma’s seeming disappearance reverberated in his head.

            Upon finding his father moping in a hallway like the world’s sorriest looking ghost, Henry asked “What did you do to Emma?” Learning the truth empowered him to speak with a boldness he wouldn’t have dared under more ordinary circumstances.

            His father was weeping openly now, big fat droplets falling from his face. His entire body racking in rhythm with each aching sob. Vulnerable and pitiful.

            It was deeply uncomfortable. His father was supposed to be this serious distant paternal figure. He was one of those classic Greek statues, like the ones guarding his mother’s orchard, cold white marble things staring into nothing. Statues don’t cry, not ever, especially in front of their sons.

            “She quit boy. She’ll not be returning.” His voice was as ragged as his appearance. His facial hair grown unkempt. The dark circles under his eyes were so pronounced that it appeared his eyes were retreating back into his skull.

            “Have you even tried to get her back?” Henry thought he just about managed to ask the question without accusation, but his father’s reaction proved the lie of that.

            His father got visibly angry, the flush of red upon his face turning an almost ugly purple. And for a moment Henry feared for what he might do. But instead he just slumped into himself, the ruin of a man.

            “Oh she wouldn’t want to see this face again.” He laughed bitterly. “I haven’t the faintest idea where she is. Where she would have gone.” He was tapping his hooked hand in the rhythm of a heartbeat against the wall. “Ten years she worked for this family. And I don’t know the first thing about her.”

            Henry just left without the courtesy of a goodbye. His father was worse than useless in this state. He made no move to follow Henry or call after him.

            His encounter with the man he had called father confirmed to Henry that he needed to escape. Put some distance between himself and the cursed and lying residents of Misthaven Manor.

            He tossed some assorted clothes into a rucksack normally used for his school supplies. He wasn’t quite sure what to pack and needed to move quickly before one of his parents attempted to interrupt his sulking.

            Henry was well-practiced moving silently through the house. _Not perfectly of course but usually Emma is the one to catch me. No one else cares to notice me. And it’s not like she’s here._ He risked raiding the kitchen and was rewarded for his efforts with a couple loaves of bread,  

            He left the house, bracing himself against the crisp and cool night air. His first instinct was to find Gideon. _Who is apparently my uncle now._ Henry had a feeling it would take a lot of unpacking to sort through all his feelings. _All the more reason to get away._ Unfortunately, the Weaver household would probably the first place they would check after searching the grounds. 

            _I should find Emma. She has to still be in Storybrooke. Somewhere._ It was his only potential lead. And the longer he waited the more likely she would have moved on elsewhere in the meantime.

Rather than venture down the usual way to town, he opted to take the path less traveled. Into the woods. They were a completely different beast than in the light of the day. The shadows longer and darker than the starry night sky. The light of the full moon filtered through the canopy fitfully. He’d have to move slow or he’d trip himself up on roots or crash into tree trunks.                         

            It was amazing how sinister everything was, now that he couldn’t see clearly. His ears pricked at the slightest noise, no matter how faint. His heart ended up skipping every other beat and then racing in between to catch up. His imagination ran wild with the possibilities.

           Still this route was the only way to ensure that he wouldn’t be followed and would help disguise his path. On the main road he was a sitting duck if they took the horses out of the stable. Let his so-called parents stew for a little bit.

           The first sign that something was properly wrong, rather than just a generalized feeling of wrongness, was the glint of eyes, glowing with menace. Henry didn’t bother to think about what they could belong to. He just starting running, limbs pumping into overdrive. Being dark this was a recipe for scrapes and stumbling. He barely caught himself each time but to fall was the end.

           That bounding thing hounding him was motivation enough. _If I stop. Look back even for a second, it will catch me._ As it stood it was a miracle he hadn’t already been overtaken. But maybe it was the kind of creature that liked playing with its prey, confident in the final outcome.

           By some minor miracle that Henry would later ascribe to the patron saint of lost boys, Henry emerged past the woods now. Whatever had been chasing him decided to remain within the heart of darkness rather than expose itself to the full light of the moon. He could piece together why unless it was somehow ashamed of its appearance. But no mere animal could have shame.

           He stood there awhile staring into the woods, trying to confirm with sight what his other senses told him, that the beast had stopped. No glowing eyes to behold now. No telltale crunch of underbrush being crushed by something impossibly large.

           A chill started to set in and so reluctantly he turned to face the new terrain and gain his bearings. The countryside stretched on and on, hills rolling into each other. He had no sense of where he was relative to Storybrooke, having scrambled his internal compass during the chase.

           He dare not try to retrace his steps lest he walk straight into the creature’s open and welcoming maw. So he started to walk forward, more or less picking a direction at random, figuring that he would have to stumble upon some holdfast or town eventually.

           The tips of the grass tickled at his exposed skin, where the thicket had slashed holes into his clothing. The moors were a wild thing, under all those shining stars.

            Still there was a certain kind of freedom to be had. From his parents. And school. He was responsible to no one but himself. _Until I return to Misthaven Manor… if, if I return._


	7. A Lost Boy/Poor Unfortunate Souls

            “Emma there’s a man at the door asking for you,” Her mother called for her from the entryway. Her parents’ cottage was small enough Emma could hear her clear as a bell. _Unfortunately._ Emma would rather pretend to be asleep, but somehow, she doubted her pregnant mother would take too kindly to the extra effort to rouse her. _As it stands, I’ll get chewed out for failing to answer the door in the first place._

            “I’m ill.” _Sick of men and all their ilk. One in particular._ She suspected it was him. Or perhaps Neal. Although thankfully the latter had been keeping his distance since that chance encounter. Regardless she didn’t know any men worth speaking to at the moment. _Or maybe ever again._

            “He’s being quite insistent.” _How typical of his kind when they want for absolutely anything._ “A matter of grave urgency he says.”

            “Surely it can wait until daylight.” Emma didn’t know the precise time only that the night was dark, and she should be sleeping. She shifted under the covers, reluctant to abandon their heavy embrace. “For Christ’s sake.”

            Her mother let out a high-pitched noise of offence. “Emma!” _I forgot who I was talking to. If I was any younger, she’d have a bar of soap in my mouth before I could spit out a (definitely insincere) apology._

“I always thought that Ruby Lucas was a bad influence.” _You don’t know the half of it._ One would think Emma was well practiced at adapting to the rules of houses that were not hers given she had never lived under a roof where she could set them. _And yet…_

            “He says it has to do with that young charge you used to look after. Henry Jones.”

            That got her attention at least. Henry, along with the admittedly necessary pay, was her one regret about storming off from that cursed job. _But it was untenable, I couldn’t have stayed another minute under that roof. My honor and dignity would not allow it._

            “I’m coming, don’t you dare let him in!” _Let him suffer in the cold._ There could be only one man at her door asking after Henry.

            Painfully Emma summoned the will to stand upon her own two feet, passing her father who had managed to sleep through the entire exchange and the initial pounding on the door. _He’s not of much use, maybe we should have invested in a guard dog._

            She grabbed a long coat, wrapping it around her night gown. _No need to give him a show._

            As predicted, it was Mr. Jones. A sorry sight, not that her heart was moved in anything resembling pity or concern. She was merely acknowledging the evidence of her own eyes. His eyes so encircled with bags and darkness, he looked rather like a drawing of that American animal, the racoon. He was practically trembling, though she couldn’t say for sure if it was a chill or a reaction to the sight of her.

            Emma side-eyed her still present mother and held out a demanding hand out for the lit candle holder, “Mother if you’d please excuse us.”

            “Oh.” Her mother looked positively shocked that Emma wouldn’t desire her presence when confronting the man that had shattered her heart. But she readily acquiesced, with the knowledge that she’d be able to hear most of what was said regardless. _It’s only the illusion of privacy, but it’s enough._

            And despite being unmarried and resigned to once again living in the home of her adolescence, she did not need her mother hovering over her shoulder, making her feel half a child.

            Emma placed the candle on a side table by the entrance. It better hid the sorry sight before her and allowed her two free hands, the better to slap him with.

            Mr. Jones croaked out, “Emma.” Once to hear him say her name aloud would have made her heart flutter, no longer. Now her pulse just quickened in anger.

            “Don’t start now. You had your chance.” He winced as she shut down whatever big speech he likely has planned. If he played upon her affections for that boy to try to weasel back into her good graces, he would find she could lash out in ways worse than harsh words. “What is this about Henry?”

            “The boy has run away from home. I thought perhaps he would have shown up at your door seeking solace and shelter.”

            Mr. Jones was looking past her, probably trying to discern a Henry shaped shadow concealed within the depths of the cottage. _He’d be better hidden than that if we were trying to keep him from you._

            She leaned against the door frame, to ground herself and recapture his attention with the movement. “And why would that be?”

            Henry had never shown any dissatisfaction with his living arrangement. _If only because that poor child doesn’t know any differently. The only yardsticks for which he has to measure against are in that madhouse._

            “For the thrill of adventure.” She raised a skeptical eyebrow. _He’d hardly come knocking on his former governess’ door for that._ “Because he’s a child and acted out in a way only the theatrics of adolescence allow.”

            Plausible enough but that wasn’t the reason, just the reaction. And Emma did not need any supernatural powers to know that Mr. Jones was not being entirely truthful. She repositioned her arms against the doorframe so that they were folded across her chest. “There’s no use coming to me for help if you’re not going to be completely honest.”

            He sighed, letting the silence hang a moment before finally spitting it out. _It’s some shameful secret I’m sure. Well good. He should be ashamed after all that he’s done._ “He resents Regina and I for withholding from him the truth that he is your son.”

            Emma was not known to have a weak constitution. Years of service had stiffened her against manual labor and the casual cruelty of high society. But she nearly doubled over at the revelation that Henry was indeed that sweet babe she had surrendered to Rector Weaver’s questionable mercies. _My son._

            “What.” She had heard him just fine. She just needed to verbalize her shock somehow. She had never seriously entertained the notion that Henry was of her flesh and blood. She had always assumed Rector Weaver would want his bastard grandson far far away so that the truth would have no chance of ever coming to light.

            Mr. Jones started at his physical reaction, but was wise enough not to hold himself back from physically comforting her, lest he lose his other hand. “I always assumed you knew. That’s why you treated him with such affection.” _How lonely you must be to assume that affection is reserved only for one’s known kith and kin._

            “You’re naive if you think Regina would let me anywhere near him if I knew the truth of this…”

            It was all too big to say aloud. One moment her child was consigned to a memorial in the furthest reaches of her mind. And in another he was given a name and an older face that she both knew as well as her own. But cruelly her window of being in his life had just closed. And he evidently had disappeared into the night. It was like a hit and run accident with a carriage leaving carnage among the ruins of her life.   

            “If anything, she probably thought it some great practical joke keeping me close and ignorant.” Emma did not realize the full truth of her words until they had parted from her lips but she found herself nodding imperceptibly in agreement with her own point.

“Will you help me look?” _For Henry’s sake always._

            Her heart softened against him, if only for a moment. “Of course, you don’t have to ask me that.’”

            “Good, let’s be off then Swan. We can search and pick each other’s brains for clues at the same time.” _So this is just some ploy to see me and get back in my good graces._

            “Why would you need me to accompany you directly? Surely splitting up would be more efficient so as to cover more ground.” _There would be the problem of signaling to you that I found Henry of course, but if you had to wander miserable in the cold for a little longer, I’m willing to take that risk._

             He averted her gaze, staring upon the ground by her feet and mumbled to the effect, “I’m not convinced he would willingly return with just me if I happened upon him.” _I’d hardly blame him._

            “Wouldn’t it be more effective to wait till there’s daylight to search for him? As it stands riding horseback in this dark, you’re more likely to break a poor horse’s leg or your own neck.”

            His silence was deafening.

            “You rode here on horseback didn’t you.” She took in a deep breath as she sighed and noticed under a generalized smell of damp was the telltale scent of liquor. “Drunk.”

            A dumb, bashful grin was all the confirmation she needed. “Aye, I wasn’t expecting a night out. Besides speed is of the essence. He’s just a boy.” _And you’re just a man._

           The terror and desperation that motivated this particular act of stupidity were written upon the lines of his face and the mad glint in his eyes.

           “Regina is already descending upon the Weavers if he sought out his school chum or his father. Where else could he be?”

           The thought that Henry would seek out Neal instead of her in his moment of need hurt in ways she had not thought possible if only because the possibility had not existed until now. _What is it about boys and their fathers? Why does that relationship have such gravity when they are as distant and cold as the stars that hang in the night’s sky?_

            “Mother, I’m going out.”

            “Undressed?!”

            “It’s dark out, who’s going to see me?” _Besides one Mr. Jones._ Well it was a matter of some urgency. And the coat was some measure of protection against the elements and leering eyes.

            “You’ll get sick in this chill!

            Emma rolled her eyes, shutting the door behind her. It wasn’t like her mother would follow her into the night. _I’ll get an earful about this later but what else is new._

            “There’s no use agonizing here.” She grabbed at his wrist to get him started. “Come on you.”

            Mr. Jones staggered after her until he caught his rhythm. He veered off, heading toward his horse, which was haphazardly tied to a post outside the cottage.

            “Oi, no you don’t. We’ll be leaving that poor creature here. You can pick him up tomorrow when you’ve sobered up.” _Even after quitting, somehow I’m still mothering him._

            She approached the creature, which seemed in no obvious distress. Evidently he had avoided the quite literal pitfalls during his nighttime ride. She retied it properly so as to avoid an accidental jailbreak. _Just what we need a horse and a child both on the loose._

            “As for where to start searching, it’s dark and cold, he’ll be seeking shelter. If he didn’t get too far that likely means the village proper or the woods outside your property.”

            He brooked no opposition allowing her to take the lead. It was quite refreshing to be in charge for once. _I may not be well-practiced, but I could certainly could get used to this._

            They walked together in silence. Emma was more than comfortable with it, having said her piece the last time they had been alone together. She was also careful to maintain her space, lest he try something inappropriate.  

            After a time, clearly offended or just bored, he asked, “Are you going to be ignoring me the entire time lass?”

            She rolled her eyes but held her tongue knowing that he was just trying to get a rise out of her. _I’ll not give him the satisfaction._

           “Fine then, I think you’ll find that I can keep nattering on till the sun comes up.” _I’ve listened to every misguided musing and inane thought ever stillborn in that house of yours, try me._

           “I’m sure Regina will be scouring the whole town after visiting the Weavers. You’re welcome to join her and leave this to me.” Emma half-hoped he’d take her up on her offer just to avoid spending the cold night with him.

           But no such luck. “I bloody well think not.” _I knew their marriage was on the rocks, but that reaction seems excessive._ “Regina has been insufferable since you’ve left.”

           “I imagine she’s simply besides herself without her favorite plaything."

           The reminder that she had borne the brunt of Regina’s sadism shut him up. And they continued on in much the same manner as they had before.

           They finally reached the outskirts of the woods and were about to take the plunge when a forceful cracked voice called behind them, “You there, stop!”

           And out shock and curiosity, they did just that.

           They turned to see the Widow Lucas lumbering toward them with a crossbow and torch in tow. The fire highlighted the crimson of Ruby’s cloak, which was haphazardly tied about her waist. The image didn’t quite make sense to Emma. Ruby never went anywhere without her cloak.

            “The woods aren’t safe this time of night.”

            Emma frowned, not understanding her meaning. She didn’t know what could possibly live in those woods that would pose any threat to a grown woman and man, even a one-handed one. And Storybrooke was so sleepy, there were unlikely to be brigands of any kind. _Well I suppose you’re more likely to trip over some errant tree root but that’s the only real danger and hardly requires a dour warning._

            “What madness is this?” Mr. Jones hissed in Emma’s ear.

            “I heard that young man, I’m old not deaf.” It was weird to hear the Widow Lucas refer to Mr. Jones as a young man, but Emma supposed that to her every man was just a walking, talking baby. _Sounds about right._

            “Enough of this,” Hook grabbed at her arm, attempting to pull her away from the Widow and into the woods. “Henry could be in there.”

            “Then God have mercy on his soul.”

            Mr. Jones snorted in derision. And Emma was inclined to agree with him for once.

            “You’ll be wanting for my help.”

            “Not likely.”

            “There’s a beast in those woods, and I’m the only one with a chance in hell of taming it.”

            “We won’t stop you mighty beast tamer.” He did an ironic little bow as the disrespectful cherry on top. _Shit-head._ “But we’d appreciate the same courtesy as we go about our business.”

            The Widow Lucas narrowed her eyes but didn’t deign to acknowledge the insult. “I was also quite the hunter back in my day. I can help you track him down safely.”

            Emma intervened before Mr. Jones could further offend and risk a stray quiver in his bum. She gave him the evil eye- _Oh I’m loving freedom of expression, no wonder those Americans wrote it into their daft little constitution-_ and said, “That would be wonderful ma’am. We’d welcome any help you’re generously willing to offer.”

           “You’re in luck. While hunting for my own quarry, I noticed the telltale signs of a fellow traveler, small footprints heading away from these woods.”

           “And then there’s that.” Emma followed the Where the old woman pointed in the distance was the yellowish light of a lit fire, bright among the doom and gloom. _The moors._ “Of course there are no assurances it’s your boy, but it’s a place to start. Mayhap whoever it is might have more clues for you.”   

           Emma bowed her head- _some habits die hard._ “Thank you.”

           “Anything for my favorite little Swan.” Emma felt a warm glow burn in her heart. “You go find him now. I have my own quest to finish.” With that, the Widow Lucas plunged deeper into the woods. Emma could swear she heard something like a howl emanating from that general direction. _Can’t be._  

           Mr. Jones gave her a skeptical once over. “You know that mad creature?” _She only helped raise me and saved my family from the absolute ruin and havoc caused by your wife._

          “And you don’t? Sometimes I wonder whether you really live in Storybrooke at all.”

 _Follow the light._ Clearly Henry had lit a fire to warm himself against the elements. _Clever boy._ Emma idly wondered how he learned that particular trick and whether the residents of Misthaven Manor would have to worry about a burgeoning pyromaniac in their midst. _I won’t know, not anymore._

          For once in her miserable life, luck broke her way. Henry truly was behind the flame and he was safe. Beyond the obvious damage to his clothing and the grime that any young boy attracts like some kind of magnetism, he looked no worse for wear.

          When Henry spotted their approach, his face shown as bright as the sun in the day. “Emma! What are you doing here?!”

          Emma couldn’t help but notice that her former charge had elected to completely ignore his father. “Henry I think you know why I’m here.” She helpfully indicated to Mr. Jones on the off chance her meaning was unclear.

          His face fell somewhat, dimming to the pale light of the moon. “So you’re my mom?” There was still an uncertain edge to his voice as if the confirmation of Regina and Mr. Jones wasn’t enough to verify the truth.

         “Yes.” As bizarre of accepting the truth of those words had been, it was even weirder to say them aloud. _To my son._ The sight of him almost hurt. Now that they were aware of the truth, it was almost suffocating.

         She hurriedly added, “I swear Henry, I didn’t know until Mr. Jones told me this very night.” She couldn’t tell if he believed her. She simply had to trust that he would trust her as he always had.

         “I don’t want you to think you were ever unwanted.” _Unexpected certainly, but never unwanted. Except by Neal._

         “You had a funny way of showing it, giving me up.”

         Emma winced, while reluctantly conceding Henry had every right to feel that way. He couldn’t have known the struggle of having two dreams die at once. _To be a married mother and in love. What every girl of good standing wishes for._

         “Henry, you must know you have to go home.” _A ten-year-old can’t live off the land. He’s not exactly Robin Hood and his merry band of men._

         “And I will.” Emma was taken aback by how quickly the situation had resolved itself. _That was easier than expected._ “With you.” _There’s always something._

         Emma didn’t want to say no, though she knew she must. In the eyes of society, she was a stranger to this boy. As much as she had contributed to raising him, she had only done what any self-respecting governess would have done.

         “I’m sorry but Misthaven Manor is your home not mine.” _It hasn’t been a place I could call home for the majority of my life._ “Regina is your mother. And Mr. Jones your father.” She could tell instantly that it wasn’t the answer he wanted. _Tough, life doesn’t just bend to your every whim kid._

          “Not you too. I expected that from him.” Henry pointed an accusatory finger at the silent Mr. Jones, glowering behind her. “But Emma, you said I wasn’t unwanted, why can’t I just go with you?”

          “For the same reason I gave you up. I can’t give you the life you deserve Henry. You’ll want for everything.” _Having no future is no way to live._

          From the furrowed expression on his face, she could tell he didn’t understand. But how could he? He had never wanted for anything, not for a single day in his life. _Until now._ She had been much the same way until her childhood exile from Misthaven Manor had taught her that wanting and not having was the far more common lot in existence.

          “Then come back with us. It’ll be just like it was before. I’ll be good from now on. I promise.” The terrible earnestness of his misguided plea was a dagger to her heart. _But it’s not your behavior I’m worried about kid._

         “Henry I won’t be coming back with you. And before you go off and blame your parents, it’s my choice.”

         Tears were starting to well up in the corners of his eyes. His face was WORD in intense concentration, evidently trying to stave them off.

         She consciously took out the edge that had been whetted into her voice by a hard life, knowing he needed a tonic to keep the medicine down. “Don’t you realize that I’ve been able to look after you these past ten years. A blessing I could never have dreamed of having.” _I was able to be your mother after all, in all the ways that count if only for a little while._ “But it was all on borrowed time, only we didn’t know it. I’ll bring you home Henry, but I can’t promise to stay.”

         “That’s not fair.”

         “Life is neither fair nor kind, Henry.” Mr. Jones now roused himself to finally interject in a desperate gambit to bridge the impasse. “Miss Swan and I both are intimately aware with this sad state of affairs. There comes a time in every person’s life when they learn of it. I’m truly sorry that now is that time.”

         “I know something has been broken between us boy.” Mr. Jones kneeled down to speak to Henry at his level. “Or it has been broken and I only just noticed.” _You’re not very observant, are you._ “But I promise to work at being the father you deserve. If you’ll give me a second chance that is.”

         Mr. Jones held out his hand, a sign of peace.  

         Emma had expected more fire and brimstone, perhaps cajoling paired with the threat, if not action, of physical violence. The indignant fury of a comfortable man inconvenienced. S

         Henry eyed them suspiciously, but he nodded his ascent, taking Mr. Jones’ proffered hand into his own. _I hope he keeps his promise to you._

***

         The cock crowed, announcing the dawn. _So it’s both later and earlier than I thought._ Indeed their surroundings were gaining definition as light filtered over the horizon. Her companion looked like shit, and she was sure the long night had done her appearance any favors.

         The boy had fallen asleep upon Mr. Jones’ back, exhausted by the exertions of his flight in the night and the trek home. He looked innocent and content in whatever dreamland his mind wandered. She could see none of the troublemaker that had caused so much distress in a single night.

         Regina must have been observed their approach on the road because she was waiting outside the manor. She had never looked so… old before. Face haggard both from lack of sleep and the absence of the usual magic of cosmetics. The stress seemed to have turned her hair quicksilver.

         She rushed forward to Mr. Jones, ignoring Emma’s presence. Not that Emma was particularly eager to be acknowledged for some tongue-lashing that she was no longer being compensated for.

        “Oh thank God.” Her hands were crawling all over her son, touching every surface like a cat reclaiming possession of its territory as she confirmed the reality before her eyes.

        “Where was he? When he wasn’t at the Weavers I thought…” Regina trailed off, her words swallowed by her own troubled visions of where Henry could have ended up. _Like say the Swan Cottage._

        “Wandering the moors. He had some wild story of a beast chasing him in the woods. Nonsense of course.”

        Emma was inclined to agree with that assessment if not for some lingering doubts. The terror upon Henry’s face when he had recounted it on the route home was true enough, and the Widow Lucas may be a mad, impossible woman but she had a good head on her shoulders.

        Regina glanced up and finally seemed to see Emma properly. _A first._ In a voice laced with irritation the woman declared, “You can go now Miss Swan.” _A little gratitude wouldn’t be out of order._

        Mr. Jones spoke up before Emma had the chance to react. “I think Henry would be disappointed if she wasn’t present when he first wakes up.” _I imagine he wouldn’t be the only one._

        “Well he better get used to it. In case you have forgotten, by her own volition she is no longer employed by us. She has no place here.” And in truth she didn’t. She had no intention of trying to vie with Regina in an arena she had not hope of competing in. “It simply wouldn’t be appropriate.”

        “She is our boy’s birth mother. She has every right to be here.” _Let it rest._

        “Not according to the law. And given the spectacle this family has made itself last night, I would think you should want to avoid further scandal in the public eye.” _If it’s a spectacle, that’s on your actions Regina._

        “We can always hire her back if that’s the stumbling block.”

        “I’ll not stand for it. Keep company with whores for all I care but not within my house.”

         Emma stood there silent as they argued over her fate. As if she had not already herself elected to depart forever. As if she was incapable acting without sanction from one of them, on their precise terms. It rankled.

        “Ella,” The poor girl emerged from the shadows. God knows how long she had been out there waiting for her cue from Regina. “Be a dear and deposit Henry in his bed.”

        Mr. Jones gently placed the still slumbering Henry upon Ella’s back. She sent a small smile Emma’s way, before making her way back into the house, Henry in tow. Emma’s gaze hungrily took in Henry for as long as she possibly could, knowing it could be the among the last. 

        “If you cannot dispose of her, I’ll call upon someone who can.” To punctuate her point, she added, “Neither of you want that.” And with that final warning Regina retreated into the manor

        “I suppose you ought to go now.” His heart wasn’t in it. He was assiduously avoiding her gaze now that it had returned upon him. As if she hadn’t noticed how the entire preceding time he had one eye trained upon her.

         Before she could leave, there was one last bit of accounting to be had. _I’m no longer his employee, I need not hold my tongue unless I wish too._ “Mr. Jones.”

        “Yes Miss Swan?” His face was open and expectant. For a moment she hesitated. She imagined what would happen if she embraced forgiveness wholeheartedly. If only she could swallow her pride, as she had been accustomed to her entire life. But in truth he had done nothing to earn it. The one kindness he had shown her in revealing Henry’s parentage had been purely by accident.

        “After the events that transpired here, we are merely even.” _It’s more than you deserve._ “No more and no less.” _I owe you nothing, and you can wash your hands of me. Find another girl to fill the void Regina has been gnawing into you._ “May we never cross paths again.”

        She ignored the slump of his shoulders that was matched by the falling of his face. It meant less than nothing to her. If they were to be truly even, he had to suffer at least as much as she had.

        She strode down that familiar path away from Misthaven Manor into the sunrise just as she had the day before. Exhaustion added a drag to her every step, but she trudged on, head held high.

        Only this time she made the critical mistake of looking back. Just the once. Even though the only person worth looking back for was now locked up within the manor’s bowels. _And if Regina has her way, he’ll be more closely guarded than the crown jewels._

        For unlike the last time where she had been powered by the heat of her rage and hurt, she felt the weight of leaving. Now she was intimately aware that it would be for the last time. Twenty years of her life had been spent in that house, evenly divided between being as her parents’ little princess and as Regina’s scullion.

       She had thought herself at a safe distance so that Mr. Jones would not mistake her odd kind of nostalgia for this place as sentiment on his account. She was incorrect.

       He was still standing there in the distance, like a broken statue or an automaton whose clockwork gears had rusted to dust. A pitiful sight. But Emma had to go her own way. _Goodbye Mr. Jones._


End file.
